


ramble on

by crookedlove



Series: mine’s a tale that can’t be told, my freedom i hold dear [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (but if you do want to beta for me hmu?), Alternate Season/Series 06, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Always Female Dean Winchester, Bonding, F/M, Feelings, Friends to Lovers, Kissing, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Pining, Plot with Romance, a smidge of it... a dollop, actual discussion of emotions bc I can’t write fic without it, but it’s really vague and either fade to black or spoken of after the fact, everyone's a little ooc, like there’s a wink and a nudge at sexual content, no beta we die like men, no matter how emotionally stunted the Winchesters are!, surprisingly dialogue heavy seeing as i hate writing dialogue, there is a bit of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 11:34:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21118106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedlove/pseuds/crookedlove
Summary: “As I predicted, the unrest in Heaven is great. The archangel Raphael is assembling forces and has plans to bring about the Apocalypse and rule Heaven.”“You mean the Apocalypse we just stopped?” Bobby asks. Castiel nods. “Balls,” the hunter sighs.“So, what are we gonna do about this?” Deanna asks.Castiel turns towards her, brow furrowing slightly in confusion. “‘We’?”She snorts. “Yeah, dumbass. ‘We.’ What’s the plan to stop your dick brother from having another showing ofApocalypse Now?”Or, a Season 6 rewrite.





	1. i think i might be sinking; throw me a line

**Author's Note:**

> So there I was, rewatching Supernatural from the beginning in preparation for Season 15, when I came upon 12.12 aka Stuck in the Middle (With You), which is a fantastic episode, by the way. Anyhow, I’m watching Cas slowly die from being stabbed with the Lance of Michael, which can apparently kill angels, and Princes of Hell, and therefore probably _archangels_, and I’m just like _where was this in Season 6 when TFW needed it?!_ And then Crowley busts in and says (paraphrasing) lol it was with my pal Ramiel since after the Winchesters stopped the first Apocalypse!!!11!!!1!! And I literally paused the episode because WHAT. YOU MEAN WE COULD’VE AVOIDED THE WHOLE MESS OF LEVIATHAN, WHICH WAS BASICALLY THE TIPPING POINT IN THE SERIES AND ALSO WHEN I STOPPED WATCHING THE FIRST TIME AROUND and then I started reading s6 fix-it fics and not one of you has utilized this weapon as far as I can tell! So I thought, _write the fic you wish to see in the world_ and threw in always-a-girl!Dean ‘cause there’s also not enough of that in my life, and yeah. This began as an alternate s6, just a quick one-shot for fun, but then Deanna started having feelings and shit and took a long ass time to play Seven Minutes in Heaven with her angel, so. Also, I have no idea how to write fight scenes, which is why they’re noticeably light on details, and I played around with character timelines.
> 
> Unbeta’d since none of my friends watch this hellish show anymore, but proofread by yours truly. First fic for the fandom… just in time for the show to end. Whelp. Work title is from the song by Led Zeppelin.

_“What are you gonna do now?” she asks, eyes fixed on the road ahead of her. _

_“Return to Heaven, I suppose.”_

_“Heaven?” she scoffs, finally glancing over at the angel in the front seat of the Impala. _

_“With Michael in the Cage, I'm sure it's total anarchy up there,” he replies._

_Her hands are shaking. She tightens her grip on the steering wheel. “So, what, you're the new sheriff in town?”_

_“I like that. Yeah. I suppose I am,” he says, a faraway look in his eyes. _

_“Wow. God gives you a brand-new, shiny set of wings, and suddenly you're His bitch again.”_

_“I don't know what God wants. I don't know if He'll even return. It just... seems like the right thing to do.”_

_“Well, if you do see Him, you tell Him I'm coming for Him next,” she grinds out._

_He looks over at her. “You're angry.”_

_“That's an understatement.”_

_“He helped. Maybe even more than we realize.”_

_Maybe gripping the wheel too tight is making the shaking worse? She eases up the pressure until it’s featherlight. “That's easy for you to say. He brought you back. But what about Sam? What about me, huh? Where's my grand prize? All I got is my brother in a hole!”_

_In a measured tone, he says, “You got what you asked for, Deanna. No Paradise. No Hell. Just more of the same. I mean it, Deanna. What would you rather have? Peace or freedom?”_

_She looks over at him, only to realize he’s vanished with that final proclamation. She sighs._

_“Well, you really suck at goodbyes, you know that?”_

***

Adjusting her grip on the steering wheel again, Deanna tries to think of what she’s going to do next. The goddamn capital-A Apocalypse was just averted thanks to the help of the power of love, or whatever. She thought that shit only happened in movies, but then again she and Sammy have always lived a life filled with more suffering and drama than any soap opera she’d ever seen when she’d been bored and flipping through the channels on a shitty TV in one of the motel rooms they’d grown up in.

The car is quiet, now; no Sam bitching about her choice in music, or beginning another trip to Crazy Town with a _so get this_, or his soft snoring as he dozed with his face mashed into the window on the passenger’s side—no, his side. Ever since she dragged him back into the hunting world, the right side of the Impala belonged to him. Unbidden, the last moments she’d had with her brother in the car that’s been more of a home to her—them—than any place since the house in Lawrence spring to mind.

_“This thing goes our way and I...Triple Lindy into that box... you know I'm not coming back,” Sam says, eyes beseeching._

_“Yeah, I'm aware.”_

_“So you’ve got to promise me something.”_

_“Okay. Yeah. Anything.”_

_“You’ve got to promise not to try to bring me back.”_

_She whips to face him. “What? No, I didn't sign up for that.”_

_“Deanna—”_

_“Your Hell is gonna make my tour look like Graceland. You want me just to sit by and do nothing?” she interjects, heart rate ticking up from aggravation, and fear._

_“Once the Cage is shut, you can't go poking at it, Dee. It's too risky,” her brother says calmly, like he’s not shattering what’s left of her mangled heart._

_“No, no, no, no, no. As if I'm just gonna let you rot in there.”_

_“Yeah, you are. You don't have a choice.”_

_Incredulous, she says, “You can't ask me to do this.”_

_“I'm sorry, Dee. You have to.”_

_They’re looking at each other now. Deanna can’t imagine tearing her eyes off of him and back on the road._ Let us crash,_ she thinks viciously, before asking, “So then what am I supposed to do?”_

__

_“You man up and finally tell Cas how you feel. You,” he pauses, then huffs a laugh before continuing, “pray to God he feels the same, and you—you have a life. You keep hunting, with him, or something. You won’t get some normal, apple-pie life, Dee, not with him... but at least you’ll be alive and—happy. Promise me.”_

__

The dark road ahead of her is blurry; she swipes angrily at her eyes, one-handed. _Dammit, Sammy,_ she thinks. _How am I supposed to do this without you?_

__

The drive back to Sioux Falls is just under six hours, and the quiet of the car makes her teeth ache.

__

***

__

The first week at Singer Salvage Yard holds that same silence, the hushed grief she was only beginning to experience on her way back from Stull Cemetery making itself known everytime she weaves through the scrapyard, or stumbles downstairs to make her and Bobby coffee and unthinkingly sets out a third mug, or manifests in the way she’s unable to look Bobby in the eye without hearing a sickening _crack!_ as Lucifer snapped his neck and hearing the roar as the ground yawned open before Sam jumped in, dragging Adam-as-Michael (or is it Michael-as-Adam?) with him, and the explosion of gore as Cas—

__

“Hello, Deanna.”

__

She jolts, right hand automatically going to the knife in her boot before she realizes just who has appeared next to her on Bobby’s back porch. She sighs, something she feels she’s done more in this one seven day stretch than her entire life before, and says, “Cas. Remembered us ‘mud monkeys’, finally?”

__

She winces, feeling guilty as soon as the words, laced with a bit more venom than intended, are out of her mouth, but she holds his stare as he tilts his head to the side, from where he’s seated next to her on the porch. Absentmindedly, she wonders, not for the first time, where exactly he picked up that particular gesture.

__

“I didn’t intend for my absence to be so lengthy,” he replies, still staring unblinkingly at her. “I was wondering if, perhaps, we might speak inside?” 

__

Now it’s her turn to tilt her head, albeit in what she hopes is a slightly less owlish manner. She doesn’t know when, exactly, she became fluent in Cas-speak, but something in his posture... the tension in his shoulders, maybe, or the slight note of hesitance in his voice as he asked for an invitation inside…

__

Something’s wrong.

__

Rising and dusting imaginary grime off her jeans, she extends a hand to him to coax him up. After a beat too long of staring at her fingers, translucent in the stark sunlight of midday, he grasps her palm and rises as well. They stand there for a moment, his hand warm and wide in her gun-calloused grip, before she prompts him, “Inside?” 

__

He releases her hand immediately, and follows her into the house, the porch door rattling closed behind them.

__

Bobby looks up from his desk, where he’d been poring over—something, she can’t quite remember, though she knows he’d mentioned it over breakfast. Bobby’s eyebrows raise, before he bluntly says, “Cas. What’re you doin’ here? Thought you’d be enjoying Heaven, or whatever it is you angels do when you’re not jumpstarting the Apocalypse.”

__

Deanna sighs, opening her mouth to tell him to pipe down, but Castiel beats her: “I needed to speak with Deanna. May we use your panic room?”

__

At that, Deanna’s eyebrow joins Bobby’s in lifting. _Panic room. This can’t be good._ Bobby seems to have the same thought, as he stands up and walks towards them from behind the book-covered desk. “Mind if I join you?”

__

Castiel does his head-tilt-and-squint for a few seconds, considering, before he nods. “Very well.”

__

***

__

As soon as the door to the sigil-covered room closes, Castiel lowers his angel blade and slices his palm. He heads to the entrance, and begins drawing something comprised of the odd swirls and squiggles of Enochian. After a few minutes of silence, save for the sound of Bobby tapping his foot, Castiel turns to face the two humans in the room. “This should prevent anyone from listening in.”

__

Deanna eyes first the symbols critically, committing them to memory in case she needs to block out the ever present ears of the God Squad again because she’s in hiding (or, like, masturbating), then turns her shrewd gaze to Castiel, green eyes taking in his form once again. Now that they’re inside, he seems even more off, blue irises standing out from the dark shadows underscoring his eyes and posture slumped in a way she’d call exhaustion in any another person. She exchanges a look with Bobby, but he just nods his head at her as if to say, _go ahead._

__

“What’s wrong, Cas? Who’s gonna try to listen in?”

__

Castiel sighs, and Deanna is suddenly brought back to that moment in the park, after the events of the long night when Samhain rose, when she and Sammy were still trying to prevent seals from being broken. _I’m not a… hammer, as you say. I have questions, I have doubts. I don’t know what is right and what is wrong anymore, whether you passed or failed here. But in the coming months you will have more decisions to make. I don’t envy the weight that’s on your shoulders, Deanna. I truly don’t._ She feels a pit begin to develop in her stomach, one that only grows as Castiel speaks.

__

“As I predicted, the unrest in Heaven is great. The archangel Raphael is assembling forces and has plans to bring about the Apocalypse and rule Heaven.”

__

“You mean the Apocalypse we just stopped?” Bobby asks. Castiel nods. “Balls,” the hunter sighs, adjusting his cap.

__

Deanna feels frozen, but forces out the first question that comes to mind: “Didn’t we trap that son of a bitch in a ring of holy fire? How’s he even… y’know, flying around, making this mess?”

__

“He must have escaped at some point. It’s possible he summoned one of his followers, or that when Lucifer and Michael entered the cage he was freed,” Castiel replies.

__

“Why the hell would them jumping in the hole free him?”

__

“Why would I be resurrected after Lucifer killed me?” Castiel volleys back. 

__

She huffs. “Touché.” They’re all quiet for a minute, before she continues, “So, what are we gonna do about this?”

__

Castiel turns towards her, brow furrowing slightly in confusion. “‘We’?”

__

She snorts. “Yeah, dumbass. ‘We.’ What’s the plan to stop your dick brother from having another showing of _Apocalypse Now_?”

__

“I’m… not sure. I came here as soon as I was able, after Raphael summoned me and revealed his plan to free Lucifer and Michael from the Cage.”

__

Deanna exchanges a glance with Bobby, who rolls his eyes. “O-kay,” she drawls. “Would killing him stop his, uh, followers from going ahead with his scheme?”

__

“Yes, but—”

__

“—But you can’t kill an archangel, yeah, I remember,” she finishes.

__

Another beat of silence.

__

“Well!” she claps her hands together briefly, before striding towards the door. “You go block angel ears from the rest of the house, and then we’ll all hit the books together. Maybe we missed something last time.”

__

***

__

“This is pointless,” Deanna groans, seven hours and five cups of coffee later, head thumping down onto the copy of _Arma Antiqua_ she’d been leafing through. “Hunters didn’t even know angels existed until you pulled me out of Hell, man, why would there be any mention of something that could kill one of ‘em in any of the lore?”

__

Bobby doesn’t even look up from the King James. “Keep looking, girl. There’s gotta be something, even if it’s only a sentence—hell, even if it’s only a word.”

__

“Deanna is right. It’s highly unlikely that we will find anything useful here,” Castiel says, setting down—Deanna squints—something called _Sefer Raziel HaMalakh._ Huh.

__

“So, what?” asks Bobby. “We just roll over and let Raphael and his crew have their way with Earth?”

__

“Why don’t you make some calls, Bobby? See if you can shake any ideas from any of your contacts,” Deanna says, rubbing her eyes and slumping lower in her chair. She looks up, notices the time, and does a double take. “But I need my four hours, and so do you, old man. Let’s restart this tomorrow.” She pauses. “Cas, how much time do we have until teenage mutant ninja angel is ready to go?”

__

Castiel just shakes his head, reaching across the sofa to set a hand on her shoulder and _whoa_ had she been tense. She nods her thanks at the angel, who then says, “It’s impossible to know. As soon as he can, but precisely when that will be, I’m unsure.”

__

Deanna stands, stretching, anticipating her back to crack out a protest before remembering Cas had mojo’d the day’s tensions from her. She yawns. “Well, I’m gonna hit the hay. We’ll figure it out tomorrow,” she says, internally doubting they’ll ‘figure it out’, period, but unwilling to say how hopeless the venture they’d embarked upon truly was. “Night, Bobby. Night, Cas.”

__

***

__

After stripping off her pants and pulling on worn flannel pants and an old tee shirt, Deanna sits on the edge of the bed that had once been Sam’s designated sleeping spot whenever they’d stayed here. Bobby had insisted she take the room, but she’d been adamant about not doing so for the first few days, taking the lumpy couch as usual. Eventually, Bobby had threatened to cut off first the caffeine supply, then the booze stash, before she’d relented. It still feels wrong to be sleeping upstairs, but she supposes she’ll have to get used to it. With that frankly depressing thought, she turns to crawl under the covers but is interrupted by a gentle tap on the door. She sighs.

__

“Come in,” she calls softly.

__

Castiel enters quietly, and the door _snicks_ shut behind him. He looks at her for a moment, then, just as quietly, says, “Are you… ‘okay’?”

__

She laughs sharply, harshly, the sound loud in the otherwise silent house. “Yeah, Cas, I’m just grand. My brother died—no, worse than that—a week ago, but I’m absolutely fine, thanks very much for asking,” she says, the words dripping with sarcastic vitriol. 

__

Castiel doesn’t reply, still standing just in front of the door, and damn it, why can’t she handle this like an adult? _Maybe because ‘handling it’ means you have to acknowledge Sam’s really gone,_ whispers a voice in the back of her head. She violently smothers the stupid voice before it makes any more useless comments. “Sorry. I’m being a bitch, I just—” she breaks off, glancing around the room as if the answer lies in the faded wallpaper. “I don’t know. I don’t even know. Sammy’s gone, and now you’re here telling me that he could have sacrificed himself for nothing? Doesn’t feel great, man.”

__

Castiel takes a tentative step forward. “I see.”

__

She sighs, and pats the bed next to her. Castiel sits down gingerly. They’re both quiet, parsing out their thoughts.

__

“I almost didn’t come to you about this,” he says abruptly, and she turns to face him.

__

“Why?”

__

“I suppose I felt… guilt, dragging you back into a Heavenly issue. I wanted to give you some time.”

__

“Time?”

__

He nods.

__

“Why?”

__

“You deserve a break, Dee,” Castiel says quietly. Deanna jolts at the sound of her nickname coming from his mouth.

__

“Well, I don’t usually get what I ‘deserve’, so.”

__

“Still, I had hoped I would be able to resolve this alone.”

__

Anger sparks within her, so she takes a breath before she can spew more spiteful bullshit. “Yeah, well, you’re not alone, okay? I’m glad you came to me. You dragged my sorry ass out of Hell; it’s time I return the favor.”

__

_If weighted looks actually exerted pressure, I would be crushed under his,_ she thinks, somewhat deliriously, before shaking her head slightly as if to banish the thought.

__

Apropos of nothing, Castiel says, “Did I ever tell you the story of the chaos my brothers caused when they were stationed in Russia, in 1908?”

__

Caught off guard, Deanna shakes her head. At the movement, Castiel launches into a story about angelic interference near some river in Russia, and the ensuing explosion; Deanna falls asleep halfway through, and her dreams are filled with bright blue lights, bright blue eyes.

__


	2. if my wings should fail me, lord, please meet me with another pair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Before the Apocalypse, Heaven may have been corrupt, but it was stable. The Staff was safely contained.” Castiel sighs. “Like I said, it's been chaos up there. In that confusion, a number of... powerful weapons were... stolen.”
> 
> “Wait, you—you're saying your nukes are loose?”
> 
> “Yes, I'm afraid so. But we’ve stumbled onto one of them. We must find the weapon that did this.”

The second week at Singer Salvage Yard is spent filling Bobby’s study with books, articles, essays, anything that mentions ‘archangels’ or ‘weapons’ or some combination of the two. Time drags at some points, only to be interrupted by an exclamation and a flurry of chatter, before eventually it quietens back down as the dead end of whatever the current path they’re on is hit.

Deanna is making coffee (her second cup, Bobby’s fourth) when the phone rings. She glances at the wall of labeled phones, but Bobby interrupts her scrutiny when he picks up the black one on the kitchen table and says, “Yeah?”

She half listens to the conversation, most of Bobby’s side being noises of acknowledgement, until he loudly says, “He what now?”

Within half an hour, she and Castiel are on the road to Easter, Pennsylvania. Deanna nods down at the files sitting between them, and says, “Well, go on.” Castiel just looks at her, so she prompts, “Read me what’s so important that Bobby sent us hunting monsters instead of hunting weapons.”

Castiel flips open the folder, and says, “Gerald Hatch, a police officer, was found dead in the locker room of the police station he worked at. He was… liquified.”

“Liquified?”

“Yes. Most of his body turned to blood.”

“Even his bones?!”

“Yes.”

Deanna wrinkles her nose slightly. “Awesome. This should be a bundle of laughs.”

***

Sixteen hours of driving later, including a few with Castiel behind the wheel with a reluctant and disgruntled Deanna napping in the passenger seat, they arrive in Easter. Bobby had already called and said there was another body waiting for them, so the pair enter the morgue.

“So,” Deanna says, gesturing for Castiel to take a look at victim number one, “That’s Hatch, and this is Toby Gray. Just brought in.” She uncovers victim number two, and grimaces. “Also a cop, apparently had an ‘extreme allergic reaction’ sitting at a speed trap earlier today. Boils aren’t just on the outside, according to the report; they’re inside, too. It says his airways are chock full of them.” She meets Castiel’s eyes over the dead bodies—or rather, the lumpy body and the bloody lump. “This startin’ to look a little witchy to you?”

Castiel shakes his head. “I detect no hexwork anywhere.”

“Well, there's got to be some sort of link between, uh, skid mark and bubble wrap here.” She flips through the case notes Bobby had given them. “We’ve got a witness. Officer Ed Colfax. Saw Hatch go from a solid to a liquid. Let’s go pay him a visit.”

***

Deanna knocks on the door of one Ed Colfax, then steps back. “Be cool,” she hisses to her angelic partner, hoping Castiel has acquired more tact since the last time they did this. “Follow my lead.”

The door swings open to a man in full dress uniform.

“Whoa,” Deanna says. “Lookin’ sharp, Kojak.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Agents Green and McVie, FBI,” Deanna responds. “We're here to ask you a few follow-up questions about your partner's death.”

“Don't worry about it. It's nobody's business,” Colfax says.

“Officer Colfax—” Deanna begins.

“Don't worry about it!” Ed slams the door shut. 

Deanna and Castiel exchange looks. As she goes for her lockpicking tools, Castiel raises a hand and blasts the door open.

“Dude!”

Ignoring her, Castiel enters the house and Deanna follows him, taking note of the—frankly quite creepy—family photos on the walls with the faces scratched out. Dread dripping like cold water down her spine, Deanna and the angel find Ed in his office using a screwdriver to scratch out his face in a police portrait.

“Officer Colfax?” Castiel tries.

“Hey, man, you all right?” Deanna ventures.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ed replies, still scratching the photograph.

“Right,” Deanna states. “Look, Officer Colfax—Ed. We think that your partner died of unnatural causes.”

Ed scratches his hat.

“Did he have any enemies that you know of?” she continues.

“You might say that,” the officer answers.

“Who?” Castiel asks plainly.

“They both had it coming. Me, too. I'll be the next to go, and then it'll be over. And God will be satisfied.”

“Why does God want you all dead?” Deanna questions.

“'Cause of Christopher Birch.” Ed knocks over a bottle of booze. He watches it spill for some time. “Oh, damn it.”

“Who is Christopher Birch?” Castiel asks.

“He has no face.”

Deanna glances at Castiel, hoping her expression conveys the amount of ‘what the fuck-ery’ she’s feeling. “Officer, you all right?”

Ed rights the bottle, as Castiel again asks, “Who is Christopher Birch?”

“Ed!” Deanna snaps.

“Christopher Birch is a kid with no face... and a planted gun.”

Castiel nudges Deanna, then flicks his eyes towards the blood that’s dribbling from under the officer’s hat. Deanna puts out a hand to block Castiel from approaching Ed, and says, “Uh, you, uh... you got a little something…” Ed touches his finger to the trail of blood. “...yeah.”

“Damn,” Colfax says. “My head's been itching like a dirty jock.” With that, he falls forward, his face landing on the broken glass of the picture frame.

Tentatively, Deanna verbally prods, “Ed?”

Castiel walks around the desk and checks the unmoving figure for a pulse, or, knowing him, some sign of his soul still inhabiting his body or something equally weird. “Dead,” he states, then tilts his head. “Do you hear that?”

That’s when Deanna notices the persistent buzzing sound, and nods. Castiel carefully lifts Ed’s hat, and they both watch as locusts crawl out of a gaping wound in the officer’s head.

***

Deanna has just settled into a seat at the motel’s kitchen table and is browsing Sam’s laptop for information when a rustle of feathers alerts her to Castiel’s entrance. He’s holding a jar containing several of the locusts that busted their way out of Colfax’s head.

“Blood, boils, and locusts—” Castiel begins.

“Three of your more popular Egyptian plagues, yeah. But those guys,” Deanna says, pointing to the jar in the angel’s hands, “ate their way out of a cop’s melon. I don’t quite remember that in the King James.” She shakes her head. 

“What I was going to say,” Castiel intones, “was that I know the cause of these deaths.” 

“Oh, yeah? Care to share with the class?”

“There's only one thing that could have brought this into existence. You call it the Staff of Moses. It was used in a dominance display against the Egyptians, as I recall.”

She scoffs. “Yeah. That one made the papers. But I thought the Staff turned, like, a river into blood, not one dude.”

“The weapon isn't being used at full capacity. I think we can rule Moses out as a suspect.”

_Right._ “Okay, but... what is Chuck Heston's disco stick doing down here, anyway? I mean, don't you guys put away your toys?”

“Before the Apocalypse, Heaven may have been corrupt, but it was stable. The Staff was safely contained.” Castiel sighs. “Like I said, it's been chaos up there. In that confusion, a number of... powerful weapons were... stolen.”

“Wait, you—you're saying your nukes are loose?”

“Yes, I'm afraid so. But we’ve stumbled onto one of them. We must find the weapon that did this.”

“Well,” Deanna says, “We've got the weapon, so that leaves motive. I think I can help with that.” She gestures at the laptop. “A kid named Christopher Birch was shot in the head last month after a vehicle pursuit. Hatch, Gray, and Colfax were the three officers involved, and they all filed the exact same police report: ‘Suspect exited vehicle brandishing a firearm. We were forced to fire.’ Colfax was talking about ‘a kid with no face and a planted gun.’” She scoffs. “Bunch of dicks. They popped the kid and planted the piece.”

“But Christopher Birch is dead.”

“Yeah, but he’s got a family. What do you say we pay ‘em a visit?”

Castiel sets the jar of locusts down, and approaches Deanna with two fingers raised. She immediately puts her hands up, leaning away while saying, “Hey, whoa, we can just dri—” but Castiel touches her forehead, and they’re off.

***

Between one blink and the next, Deanna and Castiel shift from the dingy motel room to a living room, with a man seated on the couch, cutting out a section of a newspaper. 

Deanna sighs. “Cas. A little warning, next time?”

The man on the sofa glances up, startled, exclaiming, “What the... how'd you get in here?!”

“Mr. Birch, settle down,” Deanna begins, placating. She flips open her FBI badge and shows it to the man. “Federal agents.”

“But you can't just walk in here!”

Deanna glances down at the newspaper clippings covering the coffee table. “Quite a collection you've got there, huh?”

“What are you trying to—”

“Look,” Deanna cuts him off. “We know the truth, all right? Chris didn't have a gun on him when those cops shot him. They set him up.”

“Yeah. They're all getting theirs.”

“And who's giving it to them, Darryl?” Deanna asks, tone accusing. “Did you kill Toby Gray and the others?”

“Me?! I didn't kill anyone! Look at how they died!”

“You smote them with the Staff of Moses!” Castiel accuses, donning his “I-Am-An-Angel-Of-The-Lord” voice. Deanna sighs.

Darryl gives Castiel a befuddled look. “The hell kind of Fed are you?”

“We don't have time for this.” The angel strides forward. “Where is it?”

Then, a voice from behind them: “Leave my dad alone!”

Castiel and Deanna turn as one. Behind them stands a kid, brandishing what looks to Deanna like a tree branch as if it were a gun.

Castiel eyes the object. “Is that...? Yes.”

Deanna leans towards Castiel, saying, “Shouldn't it be bigger?” out of the corner of her mouth.

“Yes. It's—it's been sawed off.”

“Leave him alone! It wasn't him!” the kid says, all bravado and wide eyes.

Darryl reprimands him, admonishing, “Aaron, get out of here!”

Castiel turns back to Darryl, then presses two fingers to his forehead. Darryl falls back onto the sofa, unconscious.

“What did you do to him?” the kid asks.

“It's all right. He's just sleeping,” Deanna tells him.

The kid points the staff at her, fingers tightening around it. Castiel teleports next to him and takes away the staff.

“Cas, take it easy!” Deanna scolds. She directs her gaze to the kid. “Listen, we're not here to hurt you, okay? But we need to know... where did you get this thing?”

“Please don't kill my dad,” the kid begs. “It was me. I did it.”

“Okay, nobody's killing anybody. What's your name?”

“Aaron. Aaron Birch.”

“Okay, Aaron Birch, where did you get this?”

“You won't believe me.”

“Try me.”

“It was an angel.”

“An angel?”

“Those liars, they killed my brother, and nothing bad even happened to them. It's not fair,” Aaron laments. “So I prayed to God every night He would punish them. God didn't answer. But he did.”

“His name—did he give you a name?” Castiel asks, gaze unwavering from the kid’s face.

“No. He just said I could have justice, but I was gonna have to take it myself. He... he gave me the stick.”

“He just... gave it to you?” Deanna scoffs. “Ah, come on. He didn't just give it to you, did he, Aaron?”

“I bought it.”

“You bought it?” Deanna chuckles. “With what? Your allowance? Tell us, kid. What did the angel want for it? What did you give him for it?”

“My soul.”

“You sold your soul to an angel?” Deanna asks skeptically. She turns to Castiel, and quietly asks, “Can that even happen?”

“It's never happened before,” he responds. “An angel is buying souls. That could explain why he cut the staff into pieces.”

“Why?”

“More pieces, more product.”

“More ‘product’?” Deanna says incredulously. “Who is this guy?”

“We'll find him,” Castiel states, then presses his fingers to the kid’s forehead. Aaron falls unconscious immediately.

Deanna eyes the angel. “What did you do that for?”

“Portability,” he responds, before the world once again shifts.

***

Deanna turns her head side to side, taking in the motel room they were working out of. A glance at Castiel reveals the angel carrying Aaron on his shoulder, placing him on the bed.

“Cas, you realize you just kidnapped a kid?”

“If the angel we seek truly bought this boy's soul, when a claim is laid on a living soul, it leaves a mark, a brand.”

“What, like—like a shirt tag at camp?

“I have no idea,” Castiel replies. “But I can read the mark and find the name of the angel that bought the soul.”

“How?”

“Well, painfully for him. The reading will be excruciating.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold on.”

“Deanna.” 

“He's a kid, Cas. A _kid._”

“There will only be minimal physical damage.”

“Oh, well, yeah, then by all means, stick your arm right in there,” the hunter sarcastically responds.

“Deanna. If I get the name, I can work a ritual to track the angel down.”

“And I'm all for that. But come on. There's got to be another way.”

“There is no other way.”

“You're gonna torture a kid?” Deanna feels the pit in her stomach open once more.

“I can't care about that, Deanna! I don't have the luxury,” Castiel snaps, before pushing his hand into Aaron’s chest. The boy screams, and Deanna bites her lip, balling her hands up into fists, watching as Aaron screams, his body lighting up from within. He stops screaming and grows still when Castiel withdraws his hand.

“He'll rest now,” the angel says.

Deanna forces her hands to relax. “Well? Did you at least get a name? What is it?”

“I thought he died in the war,” the angel replies, distantly.

“What, he was—he was a friend or something?”

Castiel sighs. “A good friend.”

“Yeah, well, your frat buddy is now moonlighting as a crossroads demon.”

“Balthazar. I wonder…” Castiel trails off.

“So we can find him now, right?”

A rustle of wings, and then, “Balthazar. Thanks, Castiel. We'll make good use of the name.”

The angel wastes no time in attacking Castiel with his angel blade, but Castiel blocks the swipe with his own.

“And by the way,” the angel sneers. “Raphael says hello.”

The two angels fight in the room until they both lose their blades. They grapple with each other, until with a _crash!_ they hurtle out of the window, falling several stories onto a car parked on the street. Deanna rushes to look out the window. The unknown angel disappears, leaving Castiel standing next to the destroyed vehicle.

“He’s gone.”

Deanna whips around. Castiel is behind her, and is unharmed save for a few wrinkles in his trench coat.

“Who was that?” she asks.

“A soldier of Raphael.”

“...Shit.”

Cas nods. “I concur.” He makes his way over to the cupboard and pulls out a bowl, setting it on the rickety excuse for a table, before lifting up Deanna’s bag of weapons up onto the surface as well. 

“We have to find Balthazar before Raphael’s forces do.” 

***

A bit of myrrh and one sliced up palm later, Castiel is able to locate Balthazar. “Got him. Let's go.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. What about him?” Deanna gestures to Aaron, still unconscious on the bed.

“Don't you think the police will take him home?” Castiel states, more than asks, and has already lifted two fingers to whisk them away once again.

“Ugh. All this angel teleporting crap is giving me a stomachache,” Deanna grouses, before looking up at the lavish mansion in front of them. “Huh. I was expecting more Dr. No, less Liberace.”

The pair start walking towards the house, and Deanna whispers, “So, what’s the plan here, exactly? Somehow I don’t think storming the castle is gonna work out so well for us.”

“It’s likely Raphael’s followers will be here. If we split up, perhaps I can talk Balthazar into making a stand with us.”

Deanna huffs. “Yeah, ‘cause angels are known to do the morally right thing. He took some kid’s freaking soul, Cas, I don’t really have much faith in the idea this guy will help us out just ‘cause we ask. He may have been your friend once, but that was before he faked his own death,” Deanna stops walking, and snakes a hand out to grab Castiel’s arm so he does the same. “We need a backup plan.”

Castiel tilts his head slightly. “What did you have in mind?”

***

Deanna waits outside the mansion, trying to breathe as quietly as possible. An angel, with his blade already in hand, walks by her hiding spot, and as she steps out from the shadows, she cockily greets him, “Hey, there.” The angel turns to face her, and she holds her own angelic weapon up so that it glints in the moonlight. “Yeah, I’ve got one of those, too.”

The angel advances upon the hunter. “You think you can knife-fight an angel?” he mocks.

Deanna smiles, a dagger in the dark. “Who's fighting? Peace out, douchewad.” She slaps the angel-banishing sigil painted she’d painted on the side of the house, and the dick disappears in a flash of light.

Deanna enters the house, trying to keep her footfalls as light as possible. She hears a voice saying, “You're making a mistake.” _Cas._ “Please. There is another way. Brother, please. I don't want to hurt you.” A dull thud, then the hair-raising sound of an angel’s dying scream. Her fingers dip into her pocket, retrieving the lighter, and she carefully doesn’t pray for Castiel’s safety lest she’s overheard. Then: “Why won't any of you listen?” Deanna releases the breath she didn’t know was trapped in her lungs.

She hears a rustle—fabric?—then a deep voice says, “They don't listen, Castiel, because their hearts are mine.” She grimaces. _Raphael._ Out of the silence, the house erupts with noise: a _thud_ and some clattering, followed by the unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh, then thumping, growing closer with each subsequent noise.

“Somehow, I don't think God will be bringing you back this time.” Raphael intones, and Deanna is tensing to do something spectacularly foolish but no way is she gonna stand back and let another member of her family die while she—

“Hey! Look at my junk,” a new voice calls.

“No,” Raphael again, sounding as close to ruffled as angels can get. Deanna hears a curious sound, a sort of _swishing,_ like someone just flipped an hourglass.

The unfamiliar voice chuckles. “Same thing happened to Lot's wife. Iodize the poor sucker, and your kitchen is stocked for life,” he laughs.

“You came back,” Castiel says, but doesn’t seem concerned for his safety. _Ah. British Invasion must be Balthazar._

“Well, now Raphael will have to go shopping for a new vessel. Should give me a nice long head start on him. Until next time,” Balthazar says, and Deanna takes a few more silent steps forward.

“Next time,” Castiel agrees.

Reaching the two angels, Deanna says, “No time like the present,” and flicks open the lighter she’d been gripping in nerveless fingers, sparking it, before dropping it into the circle of holy oil Castiel had laid down earlier. A ring of flames encircles Balthazar, who turns to face the hunter with narrowed eyes flashing.

“Holy fire,” he says. “You hairless ape! Release me!”

Deanna stares him down. “First you're taking your marker off of Aaron Birch's soul!”

The angel scoffs. “Am I?”

Deanna reaches behind her, retrieving the jug of holy oil from where it had been stowed behind a—frankly quite hideous—house plant. “Unless you like your wings extra crispy,” she says, uncorking the bottle, “I'd think about it.”

Balthazar turns to face Castiel. “Castiel, I stood for you in Heaven. Are you going to let—”

“I believe…” Castiel interrupts, “the hairless ape has the floor.”

Balthazar laughs. “Very well.” He inhales, clasping his hands and touching them to his forehead. “The boy's debt is cleared. His soul is his own.”

“Why’re you buying up human souls, anyway?” Deanna wonders.

“In this economy?” the angel responds. “It's probably the only thing worth buying. Do you have any idea what souls are worth? What power they hold? Now... release me.”

Castiel steps closer to the holy fire, beside Deanna, who says, “Only if you promise to listen to what we have to say.”

The blonde angel throws his hands up, exclaiming, “It’s not like I have any other choice, do I?” He gestures towards the flames.

Castiel lowers the fire, and Balthazar doesn’t disappear with a flutter of wings. _Step one,_ Deanna thinks. “Balthazar,” Castiel begins. “You won’t give me the weapons you stole from Heaven, but I would still ask that you stand by us in the fight against Raphael. You won’t be able to have any... ménage à douze if Raphael rules Heaven, not after you turned his vessel to salt.”

“I wouldn’t have had to do that if you had just left, like I asked!” Balthazar snaps.

“They were already on to you,” Castiel says. 

“And whose fault is that?”

Castiel looks down at the floor briefly, and Deanna takes that as her chance to jump in. “I’m guessing Cas already tried the whole ‘appeal-to-your-morals’ righteous crap, right?”

Balthazar regards her coolly, then dips his head in assent.

“Well, the angels I’ve met have either been blindly faithful to their cause or only... interested in themselves. I’m guessing you belong to the second group.”

Balthazar nods again.

“So you don’t wanna give us the weapons you stole, fine. But what if helping us meant helping yourself?” Deanna licks her lips nervously. “Sure, you can go back into hiding, having orgies and hoarding your possessions, like some—some dragon, or whatever. But if you help us find a weapon, not one you already have, but another one—one that could kill or seriously hurt an archangel—then you don’t have to throw your sex parties in some remote corner of the globe. You could have ‘em anywhere, without having to be looking over your shoulder for your dick brother to come and smite you, or whatever.” She pauses. “And you’d bag yourself another sick weapon for your stash. So. Net positives, right?”

Silence. Deanna deflates slightly, since she’d been convinced Balthazar would agree to join after that little spiel of hers. She’d been wracking her brain for the right words to convince the kind of dick angel that had faked his death, stole a whole bunch of important shit from the place he was supposed to be blindly loyal to, and had taken some poor kid’s soul for kicks. She’d been pretty certain appealing to his selfish side would do the trick, having fought—and ultimately lost—for Castiel to take this approach, but _no, Deanna, I’m sure once I explain the severity of the situation in Heaven, he’ll be willing to help,_ Cas had said. _Yeah, right,_ Deanna had privately thought, but it was ultimately his choice, and he knew his brother better, didn’t he? She narrows her eyes and opens her mouth, about to attempt another approach, one that would probably lead to those extra crispy wings she’d been talking up before, but—

“Yes.”

She blinks.

“‘Yes’?”

Balthazar rolls his eyes, and repeats the word. “_Yes._ But only if you’re not going to repeat everything I say.” He turns to Castiel, who had apparently been staring at her as she’d spun her story to Balthazar, and says, “I understand now.”

“Understand what?” Deanna interjects before Castiel can say anything.

Balthazar looks at her, and smirks slightly. “Nothing for you to worry about, dear. Now. Let’s go find me—er, us—a weapon capable of killing an archangel, shall we?”

***

After securing a promise from Balthazar to meet in Sioux Falls in two days time, the angel vanishes with a rustle of wings. Castiel gathers the jug of holy oil, and then the angel zaps the two of them back to the motel in Easter. Deanna immediately goes to her bag, still on the counter from earlier. Aaron is gone; Deanna tries hard not to wonder what exactly happened, as there’s no sign of police presence. _Maybe the kid just made his way home,_ she reasons, shouldering the duffle, then doing one last sweep of the room to gather her belongings. She zips it up, and turns to face Castiel, who’s been watching her with an inscrutable look on his face.

She raises an eyebrow. “Care to share what’s goin’ on in that head of yours, Cas?”

“No.”

Maybe it makes her a bad person, but Deanna is relieved. No way is she equipped to play Dr. Phil to a celestial being older than dirt. “All right, then. Let’s roll.”

“I’m not coming with you.”

Deanna stops walking towards the door, keys jingling in her hand. “Why the hell not? We’re meeting your buddy at Bobby’s in two days. We’ve gotta get on the road now, or we’ll be late.”

Castiel shifts on his feet, a starkly human motion, before saying, “I’ve been thinking that perhaps it would be prudent to recruit other angels to our… cause. I can think of a few who might be sympathetic to our plight—Rachel, Inias, and Hester, to begin. Maybe more.”

_Huh,_ Deanna thinks, _that’s not a bad idea._ “Huh,” she says, “That’s not a bad idea.”

Castiel sighs, and shifts again.

“What, you waiting for my permission or something?” Deanna asks.

“No, I don’t require your permission. I—” the angel breaks off. “Sam is dead.”

“...Yeah, Cas, I know.”

“When I was in search of my Father, I spent much of my time contemplating your words from the ‘Green Room.’” Another non sequitur.

Deanna is brought back to the argument the two of them had had, right before Castiel had rebelled against all he’d ever known. For her. 

_“It's Armageddon, Cas. You need a bigger word than ‘sorry’.”_

_“Try to understand—this is long foretold. This is your…”_

_“Destiny?” she says derisively. “Don't give me that ‘holy’ crap. Destiny, God's plan... It's all a bunch of lies, you poor, stupid son of a bitch! It's just a way for your bosses to keep me and keep you in line! You know what's real? People, families—that's real. And you're gonna watch them all burn?”_

_“What is so worth saving?” the angel shoots back. “I see nothing but pain here. I see inside you. I see your guilt, your anger, confusion. In Paradise, all is forgiven. You'll be at peace. Even with Sam.”_

_Deanna just looks at him for a moment, seething. “You can take your peace... and shove it up your lily-white ass. 'Cause I'll take the pain and the guilt. I'll even take Sam as is. It's a lot better than being some Stepford bitch in Paradise.”_

“Uh, why?” she asks, thrown.

“What you said… about how you would take the pain and the guilt over Paradise. At the time, I disobeyed my orders because I could see, within your very soul, that you believed that.” He pauses, hesitating, before continuing, “I didn’t fully understand, then, human emotions. But the more I got to know you, know Sam… the more I realized why you’d fought so viciously against Heaven’s plan, the more I understood. We fought against Heaven, and destiny, because of the love you had for your brother.”

Deanna says nothing, fingers nervously twirling the keys to the Impala.

“As I spent more time with the two of you,” Castiel continues, “the more I felt. Emotions, ones of confusion, of anger, of despondency… and ones of caring, ones of protectiveness. I suppose what I’m trying to say is I considered myself to be somewhat of a… guardian… to the two of you. And I failed Sam, yes, but I refuse to fail you.”

“Okay, but,” Deanna clears her throat, which had, at some point during that little speech, been filled with a lump. “Why does that stop you from flying off to get more of your friends to help us out against Raphael? The more guys we get on our side, the better the chance we have of preventing Apocalypse two-point-oh, and making sure Sammy didn’t die for nothin’.”

“I don’t want to abandon you.”

Deanna blinks. “You saying you’re not gonna meet us at Bobby’s?”

“No, I am.”

“Then what’s the hold up? I can fend for myself for two days, Cas, I’ve done it before,” she says, bemused by the angel’s reluctance.

Castiel looks frustrated. “That wasn’t the right way to put it, I suppose. I meant that I didn’t want to leave you.”

Deanna huffs a laugh, oddly touched by the sentiment, despite a voice in her head that sounds suspiciously like her dad’s saying, _you’ve gotten too attached, Dee. You’re in too deep._ She ignores it. 

“Cas.”

He looks at her, face slightly twisted in a moue of displeasure.

“Go,” she says. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

Castiel nods once, then disappears in a rustle of feathers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Agents Green and McVie from the FBI aka the Fleetwood Bureau of Investigation, because they don’t actually say the aliases used in 6.03 and I really love Fleetwood Mac.
> 
> Recognizable dialogue comes from the episodes 6.03 The Third Man and 4.22 Lucifer Rising; chapter title comes from In My Time of Dying by Led Zeppelin.


	3. and if you feel that you can't go on, in the light you will find the road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Seriously? The three of us spent, like, a week straight doing nothing but reading your crap,” she gestures at said pile of crap, “and you find something in the couple of days you _don’t_ have us as research assistants?”
> 
> “I do better with peace and quiet.”
> 
> Deanna scowls. “Fuck off, old man.”
> 
> “Yeah, yeah. Wanna hear what I found, or not?”

Deanna drives as fast and far as she can that night, barely stopping at the Gas-n-Sips that litter the highways for more than a piss and some coffee. She sleeps in the Impala after seven hours of driving, waking three hours later from a nightmare featuring Sam on the rack, Deanna’s hands on the knife as she carved into his flesh.

She makes the drive in what has to be record time, if they keep records on trips to South Dakota from Pennsylvania. She shakes her head in an attempt to clear her thoughts, and as she pulls into the welcome lot of Singer Salvage Yard, silently cajoles herself into clearing thoughts of her brother from her mind, at least for the time being.

She parks Baby, grabs her duffle bag from the back, patting the car on the hood as she heads towards the steps to Bobby’s front door, bounding up the stairs and rustling for her key. The door swings open before she gets a chance to find it, and Bobby pulls her into the house.

“How was Easter?” he asks, heading towards his desk, which somehow accumulated more books since the last time she was there.

“Disappointing.” When the other hunter arches an eyebrow, she explains, “No bunny, and definitely no chocolate eggs.” She smirks, proud of her joke, but Bobby just rolls his eyes, muttering an exasperated _idjit_ under his breath.

“Well, while you and Feathers were on your egg hunt, I found somethin’.”

That gets her attention. “Seriously? The three of us spent, like, a week straight doing nothing but reading your crap,” she gestures at said pile of crap, “and you find something in the couple of days you _don’t_ have us as research assistants?”

“I do better with peace and quiet.”

Deanna scowls. “Fuck off, old man.”

“Yeah, yeah. Wanna hear what I found, or not?”

She nods, and Bobby sits behind the desk again, taking a sip of whisky and gesturing for her to take a look. She rounds the corner of the desk as well, and peers over his shoulder. “What’s that?”

It’s a book, page flipped open to an image depicting a man in a red cape about to deal a deadly blow to an ugly looking horned creature. Deanna studies it for a second, feeling like she’s seen it before, but it doesn’t click where until she notices the white wings arcing from the man’s—no, the angel’s—back. _Heaven’s Green Room._

Bobby must hear her sharp intake of breath, for he turns and cranes his neck to look up at her. “What is it?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing. I just—recognize it, is all.”

“Well, it’s a pretty popular painting of Michael.”

“Wait. Archangel Michael? That one?”

“That’s what I just said, girl,” Bobby grumbles, then flips to another page in the book marked by a yellow sticky note. This page has another painting, presumably also of Michael, this time in flight, wings in shades of brilliant blues and tawny browns and faded charcoal. He’s once again about to deal the killing blow to a figure that Deanna realizes must be—

“Lucifer.”

“Looks like you paid attention at Bible camp.”

Deanna shivers slightly, and goes to the fridge to grab herself a beer, cognizant of the fact that those paintings almost came to life, except it would’ve been her—or her body, at least—standing triumphant over Sam’s form. She pops the cap off of the bottle, and takes a long drink.

“So, you took an art history class while we were gone. Why are you showing me these, Bobby?”

The other hunter sighs, and within the exhale she hears another _idjit_ directed at her. “I don’t s’pose you noticed anything the two paintings had in common, did ya?”

Deanna swallows, and says, “It’s Michael defeating Lucifer. ‘As it was written,’” she mockingly quotes.

“Yeah, it’s Michael killing Lucifer. But the ‘how’ is what’s interestin’.” Bobby gestures for her to come closer, and she does, plopping down in the chair across from him.

“Lemme guess: it was Professor Plum in the kitchen, with a candlestick.” Bobby only glares at her, so Deanna relents, and says, “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s the deal?”

“Michael’s got a—a spear, or somethin’. I’m still working on finding the name, but once we do, maybe we can use it.”

“Bobby, they’re just paintings. Besides, we know how much the Bible got wrong, so even if the artists _did_ encounter angels, maybe they, uh, embellished the size and power of Michael’s stick, if you know what I mean.”

A fluttering of wings, before, “It’s called the Lance of Michael, and the Host has no bloody clue where it is. You think I would’ve passed up on the chance to steal that?”

Bobby has already gotten his sawed off loaded and in front of him by the time Deanna turns to see Balthazar, looking around Bobby’s home with detached distaste. Deanna gestures for Bobby to stand down, and introduces him to the angel with a quick, “Bobby, don’t shoot him. He’s here to help. This is Balthazar. Bobby, Balthazar. Balthazar, meet Bobby Singer.”

“Pleasure,” the hunter and the angel say in unison, still eyeing each other suspiciously. Bobby lowers the shotgun, at least.

“What do you know about the lance?” he asks.

“Not much,” Balthazar replies, sweeping imaginary lint off his shoulder. “It was Michael’s, obviously, and designed to kill Lucifer. No one has seen it in, oh, a few millennia, give or take.”

“It’s designed to kill Lucifer, though?” Deanna needles. Balthazar nods. “Does it have to be used by Michael, or can anyone use it?”

“I’m… not sure.”

Deanna scoffs. “‘Not sure’? Don’t you bastards have all of history up in your heads?”

Balthazar’s mouth twists to the side, before he sardonically says, “I must have missed that class, unfortunately.” He glances around the room. “Where is he?”

“Who?” Deanna asks.

“The other angel. You know, the one in the dirty trench coat who's in love with you.”

“Um,” Deanna eloquently says.

Balthazar rolls his eyes. “Where is Castiel?” he says very slowly, as if talking to an idiot.

Honestly, with how long it’s taking Deanna’s brain to reboot after _that_ statement, he might be correct in thinking that. “He’s off recruiting other angels to our cause,” she finally says, and takes another swig of beer.

Balthazar nods, seeming to approve. “Good. Well, you lot have already done the easy part,” Deanna sees Bobby bristle out of the corner of her eye at that, “finding a weapon that just might possibly give us a chance against Raphael. Now, it’s up to yours truly to find it. Give Castiel my regards when he returns.” And he’s gone in a rustle of feathers.

Deanna and Bobby exchange a look.

“He always like that?”

Deanna sighs. “Yeah.”

***

The next few weeks pass like molasses, information dripping slow as honey (but much less sweet) from Castiel and Balthazar. The latter appears roughly once a week, giving a clipped, “Still haven’t found the lance,” to whoever is in the room he appears in, be it Deanna, Bobby, or Castiel, who’s gone often, but checks in with the humans more frequently. He reports that he’s persuaded a few angels to join their cause, but none of them stop by. “In hiding,” Castiel explains, when Deanna asks him about it late one night, Bobby already slumped over asleep at his desk. It’s quiet, just the two of them sitting on the back porch, a mirror to when Castiel first returned to her; the moon softly glows this time, in contrast to the afternoon sunshine of that day. Deanna nods, clutching a cup of coffee tightly between her hands as if it will warm her in the weather that’s becoming colder by the day.

“Makes sense,” she replies, taking a sip. “Hopefully their foxholes will keep ‘em safe until the showdown.” She sighs, weary down to the marrow of her bones. Between helping Bobby with research into the lance from the books in his collection, or joining him on day-long trips to the Sioux Falls University Library, and attempting to convince the hunters they know to fight in Heaven’s civil war, she’s been hunting. Deanna is only just back from what was supposed to be a routine salt and burn that quickly grew into something more, that something involving a sock puppet and one sweet old lady who’d turned out to be anything but. She turns to Castiel.

“How’re you holding up, Cas?”

Castiel, who’d been staring at the stars overhead, turns to face her as well. “I’m well, thank you,” he responds stiffly.

Deanna snorts. “You can admit that you’re losing hope, man. We’re all going stir crazy here. It’ll be a miracle if we don’t end up killing each other before Raphael has a chance to make his move.”

Castiel frowns. “I doubt any of the angels aligned with Raphael will wish to grant us any miracles, Deanna.”

“Figure of speech, Cas.”

“...Right.”

“But seriously,” she pauses to drain the rest of the cup, before setting it aside. “You feeling okay?”

“I thought you didn’t like—” he cuts off, seemingly searching for the words, “‘chick flick moments.’”

Deanna surprises herself by actually laughing, albeit quietly, at how foreign the phrase sounds coming from his mouth. “Well,” she begins, knocking her shoulder purposefully against his once, then twice, before settling closer until they’re pressed together shoulder to feet. “I’ll make an exception just this once. For you.”

Castiel is silent and absolutely still for several moments. He’s not even breathing, until he inhales sharply and says, “I’m… worried.”

“What could you possibly be worried about, Cas?” Deanna’s mouth ticks up in a sarcastic smile. “It’s not like we’ve only got a snowball’s chance of finding Michael’s stick, let alone knowing if it’ll kill Raphael until we’re already engaged with him and his mooks.”

Castiel doesn’t respond, just looks down at his hands in his lap. Deanna nudges him again before he goes into a full-on brooding session, surly and hopeless and unresponsive and despondent and everything Deanna hates to see in him.

“Hey,” she softly says, “it’ll turn out fine. Just you wait. Balthazar is gonna bust in here any day now with the lance, and then we’ll kick that teenage mutant ninja angel in the ass.”

“There’s no way of knowing that.”

“Yeah, but I’m not sitting out here with you to mope.”

The angel swivels his head to look at her head-on, eyes silver-pale and liquid in the weak moonlight. “Why _are_ you sitting out here with me?”

Deanna shrugs. “I wanna spend time with you, duh. You’re my best friend,” she self-consciously scratches her neck at that admission, silently cursing the sleep deprivation and quiet of the night for loosening her tongue. “‘Sides, I ain’t exactly got anything better to do at this time of night.”

Castiel nods, not saying anything in response, and turns his gaze back to the blanket of stars above them. Despite the coffee, it’s been a long day—hell, a long few weeks, a long few _months_—and Deanna slumps first down, then further into Castiel, using him as a makeshift pillow.

“Don’ lemme fall asleep on you,” she slurs, before doing exactly that within five minutes.

Before she drops off, she thinks she remembers feeling the press of Castiel’s cheek on the top of her head, and a whispered, “You’re… my best friend as well, Dee.”

Deanna wakes in her bed, alone, still feeling the phantom warmth of Castiel’s side against her own.

***

A few days later, after Balthazar has once again informed them that, _no, I still haven’t found the bloody thing yet,_ Deanna returns from one of her most difficult solo hunts ever, against a freaking _lamia_ of all things. She shoulders the door to Bobby’s place open and grimaces; she must’ve bruised it worse than she’d thought. She enters the sitting room slash library and sees Bobby sitting at his desk, nursing a glass of dark brown liquid. He looks up and grunts a greeting at her.

“Everything okay, Bobby?”

He sighs. “Don’t know how to answer that question, girl. Still haven’t found the lance. How was the lamia?”

“Angry.”

Bobby snorts. “Can’t imagine why. You gank it?”

“‘Course I did. Who do you think I am? Garth?”

Bobby doesn’t even acknowledge her dig at the odd hunter.

“Bobby. What’s going on?”

He sighs, then says, “I summoned Crowley.”

“Crowley?! Why?”

“In case it’s escaped your notice, Deanna, he still holds the contract for my soul.”

Deanna guiltily shifts her weight from her left foot to her right before settling. “Well? Do you have it back now? You own your soul again, right?”

Silence.

“...Bobby?”

***

Deanna follows Bobby down into the basement, reeling from the news of Crowley’s refusal to return Bobby’s soul, and is greeted by a voice saying, “Hey there, cranky. You were gone so long, I just assumed alcoholic c—” the red-eyed demon cuts herself off, taking notice of the additional figure in the room. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the famous Deanna Winchester. What an honor. I’d shake your hand, but I’m,” she nods her head down at her restraints, “a little tied up.”

Deanna ignores her, except to idly toss her angel blade from one hand to the other; the crossroads demon follows its path. Bobby steps closer to her as Deanna retreats to the back of the room. “Where were we?” he says.

“Your soul,” the demon purrs.

“Right,” Bobby says. “Talk.”

“Look at you, all in a rush,” the demon mocks. “Foreplay…” she pauses, uncrossing and recrossing her legs, “…gets you more play.” Deanna rolls her eyes.

“I want Crowley's name,” Bobby demands. The crossroads demon just looks at him, smiling. “His real name, back when he was flesh and blood.”

The red of the demon’s eyes fades. “Does tying up demons in your basement make you feel better about that time that you killed your wife?” Both Deanna and Bobby stiffen slightly; the latter picks up a bag on the work table at the back of the room and brings it over to the demon.

“What's that?”

“You don't recognize them? They're yours.”

Bobby turns and places the bag in a large metal tub. He retrieves a lighter from his pocket and uses it to light a flame thrower, back facing the demon.

“It won't work,” she calls. “It's a myth.”

Bobby looks at the flame.

“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about, right?” Deanna asks, flashing a mirthless smile.

Bobby puts the flame thrower over the metal tub and the demon screams in pain. After a few moments, Bobby lowers the flame thrower. Burns have appeared on the demon’s vessel, starkly red against her skin.

The demon, gasping from the pain, breathlessly says, “I can't.”

Bobby sets the bones alight again; the demon screams. Bobby lowers the flame thrower.

“You don't know what he’ll do to me,” the crossroads demon says desperately. Deanna distantly feels bad for whoever the bitch is possessing; the burn marks linger, glowing orange-red.

“Right now you better worry about me,” Bobby threatens.

“You don't get it. He's the King.”

The bones burn.

“King of the Crossroads,” Bobby confirms, “I've heard the speech.”

No,” the demon groans, “King of _Hell._”

Bobby and Deanna exchange looks. Bobby brings the flames down to the barrel of bones, and vehemently says, “I want Crowley's name now!” The demon screams, her flesh blistering and burning. “Crowley's name!”

“Okay, okay,” the crossroads demon whimpers. Bobby take the flame off the tub, and the demon gasps out, “MacLeod. Fergus MacLeod. I swear. We call him Lucky the Leprechaun behind his back.”

“MacLeod's Scottish, Einstein,” Bobby derides. 

“You got what you want, now send me back,” the demon pleads. Bobby grabs a can of lighter fluid from the work table and pours it over the bones. “No!” she says, as Bobby continues pouring the liquid into the barrel. “We had a deal!”

Bobby looks at her, furious exhaustion in his eyes. “I gave it my best effort.”

“No!”

The crossroads demon screams as Bobby drops his lighter on the items in the tub. The two humans watch as the demon goes up in flames, leaving a charred skeleton that crumbles to ash. 

Bobby blows out the pilot of the flame thrower, and the two hunters head upstairs.

***

“Why did you bring Rufus into this and not me?” Deanna grouses, watching as Bobby dials the other hunter. Bobby shrugs.

“You were off huntin’ the lamia. Busy. Besides, Rufus owes me one for the okami.”

“Okami?”

“Japanese version of a werewolf,” Bobby absently responds, before saying, “Rufus?” into his phone.

Whatever Rufus says causes Bobby to scrabble for a pencil on the cluttered desk. He scribbles down what the other hunter says, then responds with, “Great. I don't know what that's gonna get me.”

Rufus says something else. Bobby’s face flickers with an expression of interest, reflected in his voice when he asks, “Did he now?” He continues writing the information Rufus is relaying, then asks, “They fish out his bones?” Deanna sighs. Sounds like there’s some grave-robbing in her future.

“I need that ring,” Bobby says into the phone. Rufus replies, though, and then he looks at the phone like he wishes he could strangle it. “I'm asking for a ring,” Bobby irately responds to the other hunter. “And I’d appreciate your,” he makes a face, “…help getting it.”

Rufus must say something that confirms he’ll do Bobby the favor, and then Bobby distantly replies, “Something like that…”

***

Deanna had headed upstairs sometime later, exhausted from the interrogation and still hurting from the lamia situation. She must’ve crashed, hard, since when she wakes up, it’s to a twilit room, and Bobby shaking her awake. “Whazzit?” she says fuzzily. How many hours had she been out?

“Call Cas,” Bobby orders.

Deanna sits up, scrubbing a hand across her face. “Why?”

“No time for questions, Deanna. Just do it!” the hunter demands.

Deanna sighs. “Castiel, this is me praying to you. I know you’re busy leading a revolution or whatever, but—”

“Hello, Deanna.”

She yawns. “Hey, Cas.”

“Has something happened?”

“Yeah,” Bobby cuts in. “I need you two to go to Scotland.”

“Uh,” Deanna says, “what? Why?”

Bobby smiles grimly, then tosses her a lighter. Deanna catches it reflexively. “Leverage,” he responds.

***

“Sure beats flying for a day,” Deanna says conversationally. She and Castiel are standing over the dug up grave of one Fergus MacLeod, and she idly wishes she’d thought to bring a better jacket before Castiel had zapped them across the pond. She’s just grateful Bobby had allowed her to grab shovels and her phone before he ushered them off.

“One day I’d like to fly in an airplane,” Castiel says, jolting Deanna back to the present. She shudders.

“Trust me, buddy, and this is coming from someone who’s not exactly a big fan of you mojo-ing us places: airplanes suck.”

“Why?” Castiel has adopted his owlish head tilt, seemingly puzzled.

“They scare me,” Deanna admits.

“Why?” the angel asks again.

“‘Cause planes crash! They’re terrifying!”

“Cars crash, too, and you’ve driven many more miles in your lifetime than most people.”

Deanna shakes her head. “I dunno, man, that’s different. _I’m_ the one behind the wheel, making the decisions on the road, not some jackasses in fancy hats.”

“So, it’s a matter of control,” Castiel says mildly. She scowls.

“Don’t headshrink me. I’m not in the mood, thanks, doc.”

Deanna’s phone rings before Castiel can respond. “Be ready,” Bobby tells her.

“Born ready,” she responds, keeping the phone pressed to her ear with one hand and her lighter gripped in the other.

After a few minutes, Deanna hears two voices talking, then a whoosh of air, like the phone has been tossed, so she says, “Hiya, Crowley.”

“Deanna. It's been a long time. We should get together,” the King of the Crossroads replies, sounding annoyed.

“Sure,” Deanna says agreeably. “We'll have to do that when I get back.”

“Back?”

“Yeah. I’ve gone international. Very exciting. In fact, I’m in your neck of the woods!” She pauses, and can’t resist asking, “Did you really used to wear a skirt?”

“A kilt,” the demon retorts, “I had very athletic calves. What's the game?”

“Dominoes,” Deanna responds. “In fact, we just dug yours up.” She looks down at the pile of bones that once belonged to Crowley.

“This is ridiculous,” she can hear the demon saying, presumably to Bobby as it sounds more distant. “The whole burning bones thing—it's a myth.”

Bobby must do or say something, as Crowley remarks, “That's where she got to.”

Bobby says something else that Deanna doesn’t catch, and finishes up with the words, clearly heard: “We torch your bones, you go up in flames.”

Deanna flicks her lighter on and off. “You hear that, Crowley?” On and off. “That's me flicking my Bic for you.” On and off, on and off. She can hear Bobby say, “Going once,” _flick!_ “Going twice,” _flick!_

And then the phone call ends with a crashing noise. Deanna stands, stretching.

“What happened?” Castiel asks. Deanna shrugs.

“Dunno. We wait for Bobby to call back, I guess.” She picks grass off her jeans.

“I believe,” a voice from behind them says, “those are mine.”

Deanna hums, considering. “You know, now that I think about it, maybe I'll just,” she sparks her lighter, “napalm your ass anyhow.”

Castiel flicks the lighter shut with one finger. “Deanna. A deal’s a deal.”

Crowley inspects the bones, and puts them in the black bag he’s carrying. “What a good angel. Or is that an oxymoron?” He rises from the ground, and Deanna is struck with a thought. She reaches out and grabs the demon’s arm. Castiel and Crowley both tense.

Deanna releases his arm, but says, “Wait. I was just wondering…”

The King of Hell raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t disappear, so Deanna continues.

“You ever heard of the Lance of Michael?”

Crowley’s face briefly freezes, before smoothing out. “No, can’t say that I have. Now, if you'll excuse me—”

“You’re lying,” Castiel, faster than Deanna can blink, is behind Crowley with his angel blade pressed against the demon’s throat. “What do you know?”

“Now, now, Feathers,” the demon protests, “this is no way to treat a lady on the first date. Wait until the second, at least.”

Castiel presses the blade deeper into Crowley’s neck, and blood trickles down from the cut. “What. Do. You. Know?” the angel growls.

“All right! All right, I’ll tell you,” the King of Hell acquiesces. “I _may_ know the location of that bloody twig.”

“Well?” Deanna demands. “Where the hell is it?”

“Don’t blaspheme,” Crowley chides. The hunter rolls her eyes. “I dropped it off at a friend’s house, not too long ago.”

“Where?” Castiel asks.

“Does the name Ramiel mean anything to you?” Crowley asks.

“No,” Deanna says, as Castiel states, “Yes.”

She looks at the angel. “What?”

“Ramiel, Prince of Hell,” Castiel informs her, head tilting.

“Ramiel, Prince of Hell. It’s catchy. It rhymes,” Crowley muses. “And he’s going to kill you if you try to take his toy.”

“No. The Princes are all dead,” Castiel disagrees.

“That’s what we told people to stop them looking,” Crowley retorts. “But in reality, not so much.”

“What the hell is a Prince of... Hell?” Deanna interjects.

Crowley’s eyes find hers. “The oldest of the old demons. The first generation after Lilith. Lucifer turned them himself, before the oceans drank Atlantis.”

“They were trained to be generals,” Castiel picks up the thread of information. “To lead demonic armies in the war against Heaven.”

“Like Azazel?” Deanna asks, dreading the response.

“They even have his eyes,” the King of Hell smirks, before his own turn flinty. “Now, _release_ me,” he says over his shoulder to Castiel, “and I won’t tell him I sent you. Deal?”

“...Fine,” Deanna agrees. Castiel releases Crowley, and the three eye each other warily. Crowley huffs, and finally says, “This was fun, but I really must go. I've a little hell to raise.”

The King of Hell disappears between one blink and the next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The painting seen in the Green Room and shown by Bobby to Deanna is titled St. Michael Killing the Dragon by Josse Lieferinxe. [Visual reference here](http://www.supernaturalwiki.com/images/8/89/MichaelPainting.jpg) and [also here](https://www.pbslearningmedia.org/resource/xir167578fre/st-michael-killing-the-dragon-xir167578-fre/). 
> 
> Also mentioned is St. Michael Vanquishing Satan by, ironically enough, Raphael the artist. [Visual reference here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St._Michael_Vanquishing_Satan). 
> 
> Recognizable dialogue comes from the episodes 6.17 My Heart Will Go On, 6.04 Weekend at Bobby’s and 12.12 Stuck in the Middle (With You); chapter title comes from In The Light by Led Zeppelin.


	4. blind stars of fortune, each have several rays on the wings of maybe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The four of them begin walking towards Ramiel’s home, and Deanna can’t help but think, _a hunter and three angels walk into a Prince of Hell’s house…_

“Huh,” is all Bobby has to say when Castiel and Deanna reappear in the kitchen and relay the information they’d received from Crowley.

“Do you think we can trust the intel?” Deanna questions. “I mean, he just dicked you over, Bobby. And we just... dicked him... right back. He’s probably not feeling very charitable towards us right now.”

“It’s the best lead we’ve got, Deanna,” Bobby rebuffs her. “We oughtta chase it, see where it takes us.”

“I’ll call upon Balthazar and Rachel, and the three of us will go investigate,” Castiel says, but before he can wing away, Deanna grabs his arm.

“I’m coming with you,” she says.

Castiel glares at her. “That’s a foolish idea.”

“Foolish is my middle name. C’mon, Cas,” Deanna wheedles. “I’m capable of fighting one lousy demon, especially if I’ve got three angels with me.”

“Angel blades won’t work on a Prince of Hell, Deanna,” Castiel reminds her.

“Yeah, so? If we get a hold of the lance, that’s gotta kill him, right?”

Bobby sighs. “That’s a big ‘if’, girl.”

***

Deanna, Castiel, Balthazar, and Rachel land in the brush outside of a darkened house at the address Crowley had coughed up earlier.

Deanna eyes it. “Nice place.”

“Not particularly,” Balthazar mutters, angel blade dropping into his hand. Castiel and Rachel follow suit; Deanna tightens her grip on Ruby’s knife in her left hand, and flicks the safety off of her gun in her right.

The four of them begin walking towards Ramiel’s home, and Deanna can’t help but think, _a hunter and three angels walk into a Prince of Hell’s house…_

***

It’s a shitshow.

Deanna pants, hidden from view with her back against the wall in a side room of the house. She can hear the angels fighting Ramiel, and knows they’re all about to die here.

She’s sure she’d drawn the devil’s trap correctly; she could do that with her eyes closed. The circle of holy fire had only bought them thirty seconds before the demon had extinguished it with the spear he’d pulled out of his back. _The lance,_ she thinks wildly, _that must have been the lance._ Now, how to steal a weapon from the hands of a Prince of Hell? 

_Creeeak…_

Deanna’s eyes dart around the room, trying to discover the source of the noise. Her sweaty palms tighten around the weapons in her hands, uselessly. She then notices the door, innocently ajar diagonally to her right. 

Except. 

Wait.

_That had definitely been shut when Castiel had shoved her in here and yelled at her to run, right?_

She creeps towards it, flinching at every grunt and thud coming from the other room. Deanna descends the stairs into the darkness of the basement and comes face to face with that _fucking_ painting, the one that had kicked all of this off, the one that gave them hope only for them to die before they’d gotten their hands on the weapon depicted in it: the Lance of Michael.

“St. Michael Vanquishing Satan. Classic glamor shot of big bro,” says a voice from behind her. Deanna whips around and—

_“Gabriel?!”_

The bastard has the nerve to grin, smugly, and throw up a pair of jazz hands. “In the flesh.”

“You’re—you’re dead! Lucifer killed you!”

“Eh, not so much.”

A loud _crash_ reverberates through the house, followed by a roar of anger. Deanna flinches.

Gabriel sighs. “In quite the pickle, aren’t we?” He walks forward, stepping around Deanna, and lifts the painting from the wall to reveal—

“Is that a hidden safe?”

“Yep,” the archangel replies, popping the p. “Very Cold War, very cool.” He considers the safe, then raises his right hand, palm forward, and blasts it open. Inside is an inconspicuous little box. Gabriel gestures Deanna over and she numbly complies.

“You’re gonna wanna open that,” Gabriel informs her, before vanishing without another word.

_What. The fuck,_ Deanna thinks, then does as she’s told.

It’s the fucking Colt. Three bullets rest in the box alongside it, and—she checks the cylinder—six bullets in the barrel. She looks at it for a moment, then a yell from above has her rushing upstairs, hastily flicking on the safety of her other gun, stowing it in the waistband of her jeans. She rounds the corner she’d been hiding behind before and sees the tableau: three bloody and battered angels, one slightly less battered Prince of Hell advancing on Castiel, who lies deathly still on the wood floor. 

Deanna sees red.

She doesn’t even hesitate, or make a quippy comment; she aims the Colt and fires, hitting Ramiel in the center of his back. A perfect kill shot. _Dad would be so proud._

Ramiel stumbles, body jerking. He drops the lance as he drops to his knees, head twisting around to see the face of his killer before he falls over. Dead.

The room is silent, save for Deanna’s harsh breathing and a wet coughing coming from Balthazar. Deanna spares a quick glance at him—injured but alive—and at Rachel—injured and unconscious, but also alive—before rushing to Castiel’s side. He’s not moving, not breathing, not really, but there’s no charred wings on the floor so—

Movement out of the corner of her eye has her twisting, instinctively pointing the gun at the form of—

“Gabriel?” a voice asks. _Balthazar,_ her brain reminds her.

“Hey, Balthy,” the archangel chirps in reply. “Long time no see. No time to chat, though, I’m afraid.” 

Gabriel’s eyes meet Deanna’s and he smiles slightly, before picking up the Lance of Michael one-handed. “You’re gonna need this, kiddo,” he informs her, then reaches out with his other hand and touches the back of her neck—

White hot pain races up her spine, and her back arches. Her eyes involuntarily shut, and when she forces them open after the agony subsides, the lance isn’t in Gabriel’s hand anymore. 

The archangel waves a hand and Deanna’s surroundings shift and she’s in Bobby’s sitting room.

“Deanna?!” the hunter exclaims, jerking out of a doze and jumping up at the sight of them. He rushes over to her first, and when she’s deemed relatively unharmed, Bobby fixes his gaze on Castiel, Balthazar, Rachel, and Gabriel in turn. He opens his mouth to say something, probably to ask what the hell happened, but Gabriel cuts in before he can speak again.

“All right, let’s get you kids healed up!” He claps his hands together, and the blood disappears from the three angels, and Deanna feels her bruises and pain from getting tossed about like a rag doll fade. With that, Gabriel turns to her once again, winks, and places two fingers on her forehead, and Deanna finds herself in the bedroom she’s been sleeping in with Castiel, still unconscious, on the bed. A hysterical giggle bubbles up, and she’s helpless to stop the single bark of laughter that escapes her mouth. She’d wanted Castiel in her bed, hadn’t she? _Be careful what you wish for,_ she thinks, before Gabriel pops into existence in front of her. 

They stare at each other for a minute, before finally the archangel says, “I bet you’ve got tons of questions, so let me try to answer them before you start with the third degree: no, Lucifer didn’t kill me. I escaped the same way I escape all of my assassination attempts: by playing a Trickster. The lance is currently residing in your soul, but you can pull it out,” he pauses to smirk at his wording, “from the base of your neck, just like Ramiel. I even gave you a tattoo there so you’d remember. Nifty, huh? What else?” Gabriel taps his chin. “Oh! Cas here and my other baby sibs will be just fine; Castiel and Rachel just need some zees, then they’ll be good to go.” The angel pauses. “I think that about covers it, so—”

“Gabriel,” Deanna rasps.

“Yeah?”

“...Thank you.”

Gabriel smiles, a slight thing, and Deanna swears his eyes _twinkle._ “Sure thing, kiddo. You know I’m Team Winchester.”

Deanna snorts. “Yeah, right. You’re Team Gabriel.”

The archangel laughs. “Yeah, you got me. However, occasionally our goals intersect,” he says. “But I’ve gotta go, now. Good luck with Raphael, you’re gonna need it,” he pauses. “All right, your Gabrielus ex machina has officially expired. Catch you later, kiddo.” Gabriel disappears with a rustle of feathers, and Deanna is left with an unconscious angel in her room. 

She listens for Bobby, or Balthazar, but the house is quiet. She starts to walk towards the bed, but her foot nudges something on the ground: the Colt.

Deanna picks it up, and carefully stows it, along with the gun she’d had in the waistband of her jeans, on the scuffed bedside table. She gingerly sits on the bed next to Castiel, and takes one of his hands in both of hers. She lifts it up to her face, and carefully presses her mouth to the angel’s palm. She drops their tangled hands onto her lap, bows her head, and sits quietly on the bed, waiting for Castiel to wake.

***

“Deanna?”

Deanna looks up from her well-loved copy of Slaughterhouse-Five to see Castiel struggling to sit up in the bed. She quickly rises to her feet from her slouched position in the chair she’d brought up from downstairs after Castiel had shown no signs of waking anytime soon, and gently shoves him back to recline against the headboard.

“Whoa, hey now. Take it easy, Cas, no need to rush yourself; you’ve had a rough night.”

The angel casts wide eyes around the room. “What happened? I can’t remember anything after Ramiel—” he breaks off, terror crossing his face like a cloud passing in front of the sun. “Am I… in Heaven?”

Deanna squints at him in bemusement. “You think your Heaven would be the guestroom of Bobby’s house?”

Castiel’s eyes flit to the side, before meeting hers. “No, my Heaven definitely would not include you questioning me about that,” he murmurs. “Deanna. Tell me what happened while I was unconscious.”

The hunter settles back into the chair, kicking her feet up on the bed next to Castiel’s hip. “Oh, boy, you missed a _ton,_ man. First of all—Gabriel? He’s alive.”

Castiel furrows his brow. “You told me he had perished at the hands of Lucifer.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I thought he did! He gave me and Sam a fake Casa Erotica that said if we were watching it, he was dead.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “But he told me he faked his death, _again._ Dick.”

“Deanna.”

“Sorry,” she sheepishly replies. “Anyway, we were getting our asses kicked, so you shoved me into another room. I noticed a door open by itself, so I went in. It led to the basement, and that’s when Gabriel showed up.”

“What did he say?”

“Not much at that point. He cracked a safe hidden behind a painting, and guess what was inside?” She pauses for dramatic effect. Castiel just looks at her. Deanna sighs, then reveals, “The Colt, man. The freaking Colt! So I run upstairs and pop one into Ramiel’s back.” She leans back in her chair with what she knows is a smug smile on her face. “Princes of Hell, zero. Deanna Winchester, two.”

Castiel doesn’t appear interested in the score, asking, “But how did we return to Bobby’s? Surely Balthazar wasn’t in any condition to fly all of us back.”

“Gabriel did it,” Deanna informs him. “He also healed us all up, then mojo’d you up here.” She flushes slightly, hoping Castiel can’t tell in the ultraviolet morning light bathing the room.

“What of the lance?”

Deanna pauses. Truthfully, she hadn’t given it a thought until Castiel had mentioned it just now. She’d been so wrapped up in worry and guilt over the angel borrowing her bed, and she wracks her brain trying to remember until—

“Oh!” she says, snapping her fingers. She swings her feet down onto the floor before standing and turning to put her back to Castiel. “Will you check, uh,” she pauses, trying to remember exactly what Gabriel had said. _The lance is currently residing in your soul, but you can pull it out from the base of your neck. I even gave you a tattoo there so you’d remember. Nifty, huh?_ “The base of my neck,” she finishes. “There should be a tattoo or something?” She pulls her hair to one side so the angel can see.

Tentative fingers tug the collar of her shirt down, but Deanna stops Castiel before he gets too far, shrugging off the green plaid she’d been wearing, leaving her in just a tee shirt. The fingers return, gently moving the shirt. She hears Castiel inhale, and looks over her shoulder at him. His expression is frozen, and she groans, “Oh, please tell me he didn’t give me a true-to-life dick tat back there.”

“No,” the angel assuages her fear. “He did not.”

“Well, what is it? His face?” she asks. She faces forward again, but reaches into her back pocket for her phone. “Is it something cool? I hope it’s—” she cuts off, feeling Castiel’s fingertips gently skimming the area the ink should be. It’s Deanna’s turn to inhale, sharply, at the brush of his skin against hers.

“Wings.”

It takes a second to figure out what he means. _The tattoo, right,_ she thinks, then, _Fuck you, Gabriel._ It’s not a dick or his face; it’s much worse. _May as well shout from the rooftops I’m in love with an angel, it would probably send the same message._ She scrubs one hand over her face. “Oh,” is all she can muster up.

“They’re beautiful,” Castiel says, too sincere, too earnest, too honest, too _much._

Deanna gathers herself, then thrusts her cell phone into the angel’s hand. “Mind taking a picture? I wanna see.”

“Of course,” he says obligingly, then does as she requested. As he’s handing her back her cell, he asks, “Why did Gabriel give you a tattoo?”

“It’s the lance.”

Castiel grabs her by the shoulders and spins her around so they’re toe to toe. “Ramiel was able to pull the lance from this area. It resided in his energy—his _demonic_ energy,” he emphatically says, hands slipping down to grip her biceps. “What did Gabriel do?”

“Relax, Cas,” Deanna says, bristling at his concern but not shrugging off his hands. “He didn’t give me demon juice; it’s in my soul.”

Castiel steps back, the back of his knees hitting the bed. He gives her a once-over, eyes going unfocused. “I see,” he murmurs after a while, gaze sharpening again.

“See what, exactly?” Deanna impatiently asks.

“The Lance of Michael is indeed a weapon, but not in the traditional sense.”

“O-kay. Meaning what?”

“The lance appears to draw upon the… essence, let’s say, of whomever it belongs to for power. And that’s where it exists until the owner calls upon it.”

“So, what, I’m using, like... soul magic?” Deanna questions, apprehensive.

“You might say that,” the angel answers. “It doesn’t appear to be damaging your soul, however, and some soul magicks will do just that. I suppose the lance would have drawn upon Michael’s Grace when he wielded it.” The last bit is said in an undertone, Castiel musing aloud.

“Well. That’s good.” She pauses. “Wait. You can see my soul?” She doesn’t know whether to feel creeped out or embarrassed—or both.

“Of course.”

“Um.”

The angel peers at her, tilting his head in that birdlike way of his. “That makes you uncomfortable.”

“Uh, yeah, it makes me ‘uncomfortable’!” the hunter exclaims. “Souls are private, right? Human eyes are the windows to them, so we only get glimpses of each other’s souls. It just feels like something that shouldn’t be seen, I guess.”

Castiel frowns. “Eyes do not offer any insight into a human’s soul, Deanna.”

She flaps one hand about. “It’s an idiom, Cas, it’s not meant to be taken literally.”

“I see. Regardless, you shouldn’t feel ashamed of your soul. It is truly the most exquisite, brilliant one I have encountered in my years of existence.”

Deanna gapes at him, face heating with an embarrassed blush. _Get a grip, Dee,_ she chastises herself. _He’s just trying to be nice. You’re the one making it weird._

_Except,_ a different voice, one that sounds suspiciously like Sammy, says, _Cas has never mentioned being able to see anyone else’s soul before. And that was a hell of a compliment._

_Shut up, Sam._

“Deanna?”

She brings her attention away from the voices in her head—she’s definitely losing it—and back to the situation at hand. Castiel is still holding her arms, broad palms warming her bared skin.

“I need some air,” she blurts, backing away from the angel, before turning tail and fleeing.

***

Deanna manages to avoid Castiel for the rest of the day, slinking into the kitchen in the early evening for a beer and to scrounge up some dinner; she’d spent all day underneath a 1974 Dodge Charger, and she’s starving. As she’s eating, she opens her phone and checks the picture of the tattoo Castiel had taken; it’s slightly blurry, but Deanna can make out the delicate black lines of a pair of wings, the feathers curved down towards her spine, as if they’re at rest. She powers her phone down, sighing.

She doesn’t see the angel for the next few hours, as the sky darkens and fills with stars, and Deanna is so intent on her avoidance of Castiel that she doesn’t think to ask Bobby where he is until the other hunter asks her, “Cas tell you when he’ll be back?”

“What?”

“He took off earlier, said he was gonna rally the troops or somethin’. Think he’s hoping we can get this show on the road sooner rather than later.”

“No.” Deanna clears her throat. “He didn’t tell me when he’d be back.”

“All right, then. Night, Dee.”

“Night, Bobby.”

Deanna tromps up the stairs, changing into clothes fit for sleep before flopping back onto the bed. As soon as her head hits the pillow, she’s reminded of the fact that Castiel had been the mattress’ last occupant. She sighs, then flips over onto her stomach.

Sleep doesn’t come easily that night.

***

The next day is a busy one and Deanna barely has time to dwell upon the whole Cas thing.

Bobby must’ve sent word out to all the hunters in his network, since one by one they arrive. Most Deanna knows only in passing and she greets them briefly. Others, she’s more familiar with; Rufus gives her a wave that she returns, and Garth smiles widely at her before squeezing Deanna in his customary hug that she reluctantly endures. In total, about a dozen hunters are milling about Singer Salvage Yard, plus Bobby and her. 

Most of the time is spent pooling resources like weapons and first aid items, and then making sure everyone understands what they’re getting into. Basic Enochian symbols are taught to the hunters, ones that power up weapons enough to _maybe slow the winged sons of bitches down,_ Bobby says at one point. After the business part is over, most of the hunters head out to Kansas to grab a motel for the night before the fight. Stull Cemetery is the battleground of choice, and Deanna still isn’t sure how she feels about that when it’s just Rufus, Garth, Bobby, and her left in the house.

Bobby has just made the four of them stand for the customary “we’re probably all going to be dead tomorrow” photo, and is pouring out whisky for them when Deanna wanders outside, needing to clear her head for a bit.

She meanders her way over to the Impala, and slides in the driver’s seat. She pulls out of Singer Salvage Yard and drives until she finds a park, utterly empty and quiet at this time of night. She parks Baby, grabs one of the beers she’d pilfered from Bobby’s fridge, then hops up on the hood of the car and pops the top off of the bottle. Deanna takes a few sips, reflecting on the day.

Bobby had insisted she play around with the lance, because _what good’ll it do us if you ain’t even able to use the damn thing?_ he’d said. So, she’d spent a few minutes getting used to pulling it out of the base of her neck, which is thankfully less painful than the process of putting it in the first time. She’d subsequently spent a few hours sparring with other hunters that were proficient with knives, taking care not too whack them too hard with the angelic weapon, trying to get used to fighting with something almost as tall as her. For whatever reason, whether it was the fact that Deanna was supposed to be Michael’s vessel or that the damn thing was melded with her soul, she had found it easy to wield, twirling it like an extension of herself. After knowing that, at the very least, she’d be able to handle it, she’d surrendered the Colt to Bobby.

She’s musing on the fact she’s basically Luke Skywalker, but way more awesome since she has two hands when she hears the telltale flutter of wings that usually precedes—

“Hello, Deanna.”

She smiles. “Hey, Cas. Wanna join me?” She pats the space next to her in invitation. Castiel nods, carefully climbing onto the hood and mimicking her recline against the windshield, eyes on the stars.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to return sooner. I had to give instructions to the angels under my command,” the angel apologizes. Deanna waves him off.

“I understand. You did what you had to,” she says, swallowing the words, _I missed you, though._

Out of the corner of her eye, Deanna sees Castiel nod, and the two of them lapse into silence, nothing but the sound of crickets chirping and a faint breeze ruffling through the trees and Deanna’s hair, nothing but the stars above them. 

Deanna is suddenly brought back to another night, one that seems like it happened to a different person, a different _her. _

_“Do we have any chance of surviving this?”_

_“You do.”_

_“So odds are you're a dead man tomorrow.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Well,” she’d said. “Last night on earth. What are your plans?”_

_“...I just thought I'd sit here quietly.”_

_“Come on, anything? Booze? Women?”_

_He’d looked away from her, clearly uncomfortable._

_“You have been with women before. Right? Or an angel, at least?”_

_He’d rubbed the back of his next, embarrassed look on his face likely only noticeable to Deanna, who had somehow become practiced in reading his expressions._

_“You mean to tell me you've never been up there doing a little cloud-seeding?” she’d asked incredulously._

_“Look, I've never had occasion, okay?”_

_“All right,” she’d said, grabbing her jacket. “Let me tell you something. There are two things I know for certain. One: Bert and Ernie are gay. Two: you are not gonna die a virgin. Not on my watch. Let's go.”_

Deanna frowns. After the ruckus Castiel had caused regarding Chastity, they’d stumbled out onto the street, laughing, but she’d never made good on that promise. They hadn’t died, after all, and she’d forgotten about that night after everything that had happened; trapping an archangel in holy fire, then getting sent to a bleak future would make anyone’s memory lapse. Deanna eyes the angel next to her without turning her head; he’s looking up at the sky, face peaceful. She bites her lip.

“Hey, Cas?”

He turns his face towards hers, and she follows suit. “Yes, Deanna?”

“The night before we trapped Raphael. Um. We went to that brothel, remember?” She internally curses her clumsy words.

“Yes, I remember,” Castiel responds, then he furrows his brow. “Why? Are you going to make me go to another den of iniquity?”

“No, no, I just—” She cuts herself off, trying to organize the jumble of thoughts filling her head, thoughts like _last night on Earth_ and _Cas_ and _we might be dead tomorrow_ and _Cas_ and _you know, the one in the dirty trench coat who's in love with you_ and _Cas_ and _you man up and finally tell Cas how you feel. you pray to God he feels the same_ and _Cas_ and _the most exquisite, brilliant one I have encountered in my years of existence_ and _Cas_ and _Cas_ and _Cas_ and—

“Cas.”

“Yes, Deanna?”

“Can I kiss you?”

There’s a moment, where the two of them look at each other, crickets chirping around them and stars spinning above them, before—

“Yes.”

Later, Deanna is never sure which of them moved first, but their lips meet and her right hand moves to his hair as his left cups her cheek, and they’re _kissing_ and _oh, god, she’s kissing an angel, isn’t this a sin?_ before she stops thinking about anything but the heat of Cas’ mouth on hers and the press of his body against her, and Deanna rolls them so she’s stretched out on top of him, hands gripping his skull and his tongue is sliding against hers, warm and wet and _where the hell did he learn to kiss like this_ and Deanna breaks away, panting. She and Cas look at each other, wide-eyed, before—

“Fuck, Cas, I’ve wanted this for so long, I just didn’t know—”

“—Deanna, there is not another person, in Heaven or on Earth, that I’d rather spend this night with, and nothing else I want to do more than this.”

—they talk over each other, babbling, then abruptly quiet down, still holding each other’s gaze, blue eyes on green. Deanna presses her forehead to Cas’, puffing a breath containing a slightly giddy laugh against his face.

“We coulda been doing this the whole time, huh? Ever since you came back the second time.” She sighs, ducks in for another kiss, soft and brief; a featherlight and honeysweet thing.

“Longer,” Cas replies, chasing her mouth.

“How long?” she breathes, almost afraid to hear the answer.

“I’ve wanted you as long as I’ve known _how_ to want, Deanna.”

If she were a different woman, Deanna would be swooning. Since she’s not, she dives back in for another kiss, deeper this time, Cas responding with fervor, one hand still on her face, thumb sweeping gentle half moons under her eye, and one on her back, fingers reverently walking up and down her spine.

When things start getting more heated, Cas’ hips jerking slightly against hers, a warm coil of pleasure settling in at the base of her spine and low in her belly, she thinks and then immediately discards the thought of moving this to the backseat of the Impala. She wants this night under the stars, just the two of them, no chance of the ghost of another angel interrupting this.

They kiss, and kiss, and _kiss,_ only breaking for Deanna to breathe, and lose themselves to pleasure under the night sky, find each other under the blanket of stars.

***

Later, much later, Deanna drives them back to Bobby’s, Cas sitting shotgun with his hand warm on her thigh. They tiptoe up the stairs to the guest room, falling into bed in a tangle of satiated limbs. Deanna sighs, and presses close to Cas under the blankets. 

“You stayin’?” She asks, drowsily.

Cas pulls her tighter against him, hand finding the back of her neck, where her wings, the only chance of survival they’ve got, lay.

“As long as you wish for me to be here, I will.”

Deanna might mumble _always_ before she drops into dreamland, but they’re probably gonna die tomorrow; might as well go into the fight with her patchwork heart resting in Cas’ hands. She can’t think of a safer place for it to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recognisable dialogue comes from the episode 5.03 Free to Be You and Me; chapter title comes from Ten Years Gone by Led Zeppelin.


	5. tired eyes on the sunrise, waiting for the eastern glow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “All right,” she says. “Let’s do this.”

The next morning dawns crisp and gray, and Deanna would pray to God for no rain if she knew He wasn’t such a dick.

She’d woken up when it was still dark out to Cas’ fingers brushing through her hair, and the angel saying her name in a hushed voice. 

“Mmm.”

“Deanna,” he’d said again. “I’m going to gather the angels. I’ll return at dawn and we’ll make our way to the battleground together.”

“‘Kay. See ya,” Deanna had mumbled, then sprawled onto her stomach when Cas disappeared in a flutter of wings, but not before pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.

She’d fallen back asleep instantly, and woke again just before the first tendrils of light stretched across the floor of her room.

Now, Deanna sits bleary-eyed in the kitchen, watching the _drip_ of the percolator as she makes coffee. The radio has just changed to a song she’s sure she knows, but can’t remember the name of in her exhausted state, when Bobby enters the room. He grunts at her, and she can only nod back at him.

_Dance in the dark of night, sing to the morning light._

The two of them sit in silence for a while, staring at the coffeemaker. Deanna hears movement from the basement, footsteps coming up the stairs.

_Side by side we wait the might of the darkest of them all._

Garth emerges from the steps leading downstairs and opens his mouth to say something, but Bobby grumbles, “Not yet, Garth,” and the hunter closes his mouth and takes a seat on the sofa.

_I’m waiting for the angels of Avalon, waiting for the eastern glow._

The coffee has finished, and Deanna rises to fix them all a cup. 

_Oh, war is the common cry; pick up your swords and fly.  
The sky is filled with good and bad that mortals never know._

After inhaling their respective coffees, Garth finally asks, “Where’s Rufus?”

“Around,” Bobby responds.

_The pain of war cannot exceed the woe of aftermath._

Deanna yawns. Bobby pours her another cup, then asks, “Where’s Cas?”

“He said he’d be back around dawn,” she answers.

“So, now?” Garth chimes in, just as Rufus comes in from outside.

_At last the sun is shining; the clouds of blue roll by.  
With flames from the dragon of darkness, the sunlight blinds his eyes._

The song ends, and Deanna shuts off the radio. “Yeah, hopefully soon. Wanna get this over with.”

“I called the others, told ‘em what the plan is. ‘Course, things never go to plan, but maybe this time things’ll turn out right,” Bobby says. He doesn’t look very hopeful.

Rufus laughs at him. “Keep dreamin’, brother.”

After that cheery bit of optimism, they eat a quick breakfast before retreating to their corners of the house. Deanna changes into her clothes for the day. She deliberates for a moment before striding over to the tiny closet in the room. She reaches up and brings down the closed cardboard box that rests on the shelf above her FBI bitchy power suits and skirts. 

She sets the box down on the bed, then lifts the cover. Her hands first find the amulet Sam had given to her—twice, actually; first when they were kids as a Christmas gift when their dad hadn’t returned home as promised, then again, when he’d pressed it into her hands on that final ride to Detroit. Deanna sighs, and slips it over her neck for the first time in months, where it hangs familiarly, where it belongs. She turns her attention back to the box, and retrieves what’s taking up the majority of its confines: her Dad’s leather jacket. She shrugs it on, and heads outside.

Deanna is rummaging through the trunk of the Impala when she feels a familiar displacement of air and hears the sound of feathers. Her lips curl up into a slight smile.

“Hey, Cas.”

“Hello, Deanna.”

She turns to face him, stowing a gun in her waistband and a dagger in her boot before looking at him.

Deanna doesn’t know what she expected; the angel looks the same as always, messy hair and crooked tie and overly large trench coat, except—

“What’re you smiling about?” she snarks. “We’re probably about to die, man, this is no laughing matter.”

Cas hesitates for a moment, seemingly wavering on what to say, before he settles on: “I suppose I’m just... happy to see you, despite the circumstances.”

Deanna smiles wider, and the slight one he’d had on his face grows. Hers does, too, until they’re both grinning at each other, slightly giddy.

A polite cough from behind Cas has Deanna craning her neck to see behind his shoulder.

“Yes, Balthazar?” 

“Just wondering if the two of you were planning on standing here grinning at each other like idiots all day, or if we might attempt to defeat Raphael at some point in the next century.” With that, he disappears, and Cas tilts his head as if he’s listening.

He nods to himself, then informs her, “Balthazar has brought Bobby, Rufus, and Garth to Stull Cemetery. Are you ready?”

“Hell, no.”

Cas frowns. “Can I do anything to aid you?”

Deanna smiles, then steps into his space until the toes of her boots nudge his dress shoes. She winds her arms around his neck, then says, “How ‘bout a kiss?”

The lines on Cas’ forehead smooth out, and he softly presses his mouth to hers in a brief peck. Deanna shakes her head, laughing, before dragging him into a longer kiss, still gentle, but deeper. Cas wraps his arms around her waist, and they kiss as the sky lightens to a pale blue.

***

They arrive in the cemetery, and Deanna can’t help the instinctive shudder that runs through her. The last time she’d been here flashes through her mind: Rock of Ages blaring as she’d pulled in, the sight of Lucifer wearing Sam’s skin, the condescension of both of the angels as she’d interrupted their dick measuring contest, _hey, assbutt!_, Cas getting vaporized and Bobby’s neck snapping, the brutal beating the thing that looked like her brother had given her, _Sam, it's okay. It's okay. I'm here. I'm here. I'm not gonna leave you. I'm not gonna leave you_, her brother’s fist hovering above her face as she’d braced herself, _it's okay, Dee. It's gonna be okay. I've got him_, the sound the ground made as Sam had opened the cage, the sight of him grabbing the shell of their half-brother and falling, falling, _falling_—

“You good, Deanna?” She looks up. _Bobby._ His expression is exasperated, but he’s eyeing her with concern, face looking a little gray. She realizes the last time he was here, he’d died. She forces a smile onto her face, although she knows she’s not fooling either of them.

“Yeah, I’m good.” She glances around, at the hunters they’ve gathered chatting amongst themselves and the angels they’ve recruited standing still and silent. Bobby is in front of her, Cas is next to her, and Balthazar is approaching them with an annoyed look on his face.

“Well?” the angel asks impatiently. “Are we doing this or not? I’ve got places to be.”

Deanna rolls her eyes, then looks at Cas. He’s gazing back at her, face gentle, and she nods at him. He turns to Balthazar.

“Yes.” Cas presses his hand to the side of her face, then leans in to press their foreheads together, eyes searching hers, before striding away with Balthazar. Deanna swears she hears the other angel mutter, “_Finally._”

She turns to look at Bobby, who has an eyebrow raised. She smirks slightly, then says, “Ready?” 

The other hunter just shakes his head in dissent or exasperation or both, and they walk towards where the rest of the group is milling about.

Deanna and Bobby go to join Cas, Balthazar, and Rachel where they’re standing slightly apart from the others. 

“Everything all set?” Deanna asks.

Cas and Bobby both nod, having set everything up as the five of them, plus Rufus and Garth, had discussed earlier.

“And everyone is clear on the plan?” The two nod again.

“All right,” she says. “Let’s do this.”

Cas steps away from them, and turning his face to the sky, shouts, “I'm here, Raphael. Come and get me, you little bastard.” 

Deanna smiles slightly at the words, the last time he’d used them echoing in her head. _I made good on my promise that he wouldn’t die a virgin, at least,_ she thinks to herself. Cas strides back to them, standing beside Deanna, his angel blade slipping into his hand, and they wait.

***

Raphael doesn’t keep them waiting long. They’re outnumbered by a good margin, and Deanna grips her angel blade tighter.

Deanna only remembers the battle for Heaven and Earth in bits and pieces:

Raphael drones on at the renegade angels, telling them he’ll welcome them back into the Heavenly Host personally if they abandon their cause. None of them budge. Raphael then turns to Deanna and Cas, and sneers, telling them that they were _only leading their lambs to slaughter._

Then, always needing to have the last word, Raphael signaled to his followers and so the fighting began.

It’s brutal, and bloody, and Deanna quickly loses count of the number of angels she drops, their Grace exploding white from their eyes and mouth, Cas at her back doing the same.

The sky grows dark with storm clouds, thunder rumbling and lightning flashing first in the distance, slowly moving closer.

A hunter who Deanna had only met the day before, bleeding profusely and scrambling back on the ground before one of Raphael’s pant-suited soldiers had stabbed him through the heart.

The air crackling with electricity, Deanna a beat too slow and unable to prevent the plunge of a blade into her abdomen, gasping with pain as she’d ganked the son of a bitch who’d stuck her.

Lightning striking and setting the dry grass alight, way too close for comfort, fending off an angel and driving her blade into his heart before diving behind a grave for cover.

A few seconds later, Cas joining her, both of them bloody and winded. He’d looked at her, and Deanna had looked at him, before abruptly hauling him into a kiss that’s more teeth and heat and releasing him just as suddenly. A tumble of words falling from her mouth:

“You know I—I love you, right, Cas?”

“I know. And I love you.”

Raphael’s people slowly, so slowly, thinning out, until Deanna finally catches a glimpse of Raphael. The archangel is just a bit to the left of where she wants him, so she moves into a position where—

“Raphael!” He turns to look at her, face blank as ever. She’d smiled, more a baring of teeth than anything. “How’s it feel to be losing?” 

Raphael had begun approaching her at that, eyes narrowed in a mixture of disgust and befuddled amusement, regarding her like one would regard a bug before stepping on it.

“Losing?” He booms, and lightning illuminating the darkened cemetery for a moment. “I believe you’re mistaken, girl.”

_Just a few more feet,_ Deanna thinks. “Nah, pretty sure I’m not.” Raphael continues walking towards her and—_yes._

Deanna flicks open her lighter, and drops it onto the grass where they’d poured a wide circle of holy oil before. The ring of fire surrounds Raphael—and her. 

The archangel glances around, amused. “And what is this supposed to accomplish?” He pauses, then looks out towards the fighting, which has slowed, the angels opposing Raphael thinned out and the humans dead or exhausted. “Seize them,” he instructs his faction, and they follow his order immediately, swiftly overpowering their opponents and tugging them against their chests, angel blades pressed to the necks of all of the renegades.

Deanna’s eyes dart around, trying to locate Bobby—alive and spitting curses at the angel holding him—, Balthazar, who just looks bored, and Cas, whose gaze finds hers, seemingly ignorant of the blade against his throat.

“I have been patient,” Raphael intones, “but you have stretched the limits of my mercy, Deanna Winchester. I’m going to eviscerate you, now, in front of all of your,” he sneers, “_friends._ I will make an example of you: this is what happens to those who would dare defy Heaven, time and again.” The archangel slowly walks towards her.

When he’s a scant foot or two away, Deanna says, “Wait.”

Raphael stops, seemingly enjoying playing with his food. “Yes? Do you have any last words?”

“No, just—” she breaks off, hand going to the base of her neck and _tugging._

_It’s hard to describe,_ she thinks to herself, _exactly what pulling a damn lance out of your damn soul feels like, but it ain’t sunshine and roses._ Regardless, the Lance of Michael forms in her hand, a flash of lightning causing the Enochian etched silver to glow, before she drives it straight through Raphael’s heart.

For a moment, nothing happens, the whole world freezing as Deanna waits with her heart caught in her throat, her mind a litany of _please let it work oh please fuck let it work please_ before Raphael falls to his knees.

The archangel’s blade falls to the ground and he looks up at her, eyes wide with genuine emotions: shock, anger, fear. Deanna, her hand still on the wooden shaft of the lance, leans forward. 

“If there’s a place worse than Hell, I hope that’s where you end up.” He’s still looking at her, the black lines that were snaking under his skin finally reaching his face, so she twists the lance and continues, “That was for my brother, you son of a bitch.”

Raphael tilts his head back, and brilliant white light flares from his eyes and mouth and Deanna has to look away. When she’s able to see again, it’s the sight of Raphael slumped forward, the Lance of Michael sticking out of his back. Dead.

The cemetery is eerily silent, everybody utterly still. Deanna presses one hand against the wound in her stomach, before kicking Raphael over into the circle of holy fire, extinguishing it.

“_Enough,_” she tells the angels holding her people. “Let them _go._” Her voice rings across the field. As one, Raphael’s followers release the angels and humans they’re holding. She nods, satisfied, before ordering, “Get on your knees.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Cas and Balthazar moving towards her, and Bobby barking commands at the hunters and angels alike to check bodies and to _get the healin’ mojo goin’._ As soon as Cas reaches her, he lays his hand atop hers, healing the gash in her abdomen instantly, as well as the rest of her lacerations and bruises.

“Thanks,” Deanna mutters, and gives him a once over. Aside from a bit of blood and a few rips and tears in his trench coat and shirt, the angel seems to be fine. Balthazar is slightly worse off, sporting an oozing cut on his chest and a scowl.

“So, what’s Heaven’s policy on keeping prisoners of war?” she asks. 

***

Turns out Heaven has a prison; after meeting so many angels, Deanna can’t say she’s surprised.

Balthazar and Rachel and the rest of Cas’ band of merry misfits take off shortly after with Raphael’s forces, leaving the hunters and the lone angel.

Bobby approaches them. “All right, we got four of ours dead,” he says grimly. “Considerin’ what we were up against, it ain’t too bad.” He sighs. “Me and Garth and Rufus are gonna go build the pyres. You two comin’?”

Deanna looks at Cas, and says, “Yeah, we are.”

***

The dead hunters—whose name Deanna discovers are Wayne, Jake, Taylor, and Beth—burn as those left look on in silence. The group disperses soon after the flames turn to embers, heading back to their corners of the country. Garth manages to grab Deanna into another tight hug; his left arm is broken and he’s missing a tooth, but he waves off Cas’ offer to heal him, saying, “Nah, man, I’m good. I’ll patch up au naturale. Thanks anyhow, dude!” The hunter drives away from Singer Salvage Yard with a _honk!_ of his car horn.

As soon as it’s just Bobby, Cas, and her—Rufus had to stay in Stull to smooth things over with the locals, and Deanna doesn’t envy him for having to explain why there were charred imprints of wings in the cemetery—it’s late, and Bobby pours them all full glasses of whisky. The three of them sit in silence for a while, each wrapped up in their thoughts.

Bobby shatters the quiet by turning to Cas, who’s sitting on the couch with Deanna, by asking, “So, what’s your plan?”

Cas startles, basically a slight widening of his eyes, and responds, “What do you mean?”

The hunter snorts, before clarifying: “With Heaven and all. You led a revolution, boy, ain’t you gonna have the run of the place?”

Cas’ eyes widen further. “I… hadn’t thought of that.”

“Well, you oughtta. I know we preach about free will ‘round here, but your friends still have a long way to go. They don’t all have a Deanna to teach ‘em the ropes.”

Deanna opens her mouth to rebuff the claim she taught Cas to think for himself, but. Well. She definitely helped. She masks it by taking a sip of whisky.

“I will have to think on it,” Cas eventually replies.

“You’ll be great at it, man,” Deanna assures him around the lump slowly building in her throat.

Cas just looks at her, head tilted. 

“I’d have to disagree,” a new voice says.

Deanna, Cas, and Bobby all react by drawing their weapons and raising them at the newcomer. Gabriel holds his hands up in a sign of surrender.

“Whoa, there,” the archangel says. “Bit trigger-happy, huh?” They lower their weapons.

“What’re you doin’ in my house?” Bobby asks.

“I was in the neighborhood,” is the breezy reply, as Gabriel swipes the glass out of Cas’ hands and takes a long drink. He makes a face, and hands it back to the angel.

“So,” the archangel says. “I wanna propose a trade.”

“Trade?” Deanna questions.

Gabriel’s eyes zero in on her. “Yep! And let me tell you, I am definitely getting the short end of this stick, kiddo.”

“Really?” she asks. “Somehow I find that hard to believe.”

“Well, I can’t believe it’s not butter, but trust me: you’re the winner.”

Deanna narrows her eyes. “What did I win? Free trip to the Bahamas?” 

“Nah, even better. Well,” the archangel allows. “For you, at least.”

She arches an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”

Gabriel spreads his hands. “Okay, so here’s how it’s gonna work: you give me my big brother’s lance, and I give you—and Cas here—exactly what you want.”

“Which is?”

“Well, Cas doesn’t wanna be ‘the new sheriff in town,’” the archangels informs her. Deanna turns to Cas in surprise; he’s looking at Gabriel with hope shading the blue of his eyes. The Trickster continues, “So I’m gonna strap on my gun and badge and,” he heaves an exaggerated sigh, “run Heaven. Ugh.”

“I thought you wanted nothing to do with Heaven,” Deanna accuses. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch, I swear to Dad.” He crosses his fingers in an x over his heart. “But wait: there’s more! You see, that’s what _Cas_ wants. You,” he points at her, “on the other hand, want something much simpler.”

Deanna wracks her brain, and the first thing that comes to mind is—

“Sam.”

“Bingo! Got it in one,” Gabriel exclaims, then claps his hands together. “Now, I’m off, so be good, kids. Cas, feel free to pop upstairs anytime you’d like, though I’d understand if you wanna stay down here for a bit.” He smirks, and wiggles his eyebrows.

“Wait!” Deanna says, getting to her feet. “What about Sam?”

But Gabriel is already gone.

“Dammit!” Deanna curses, and begins pacing. “Don’t know why I believed him. Once a Trickster, always a Tr—”

The doorbell rings.

Deanna freezes, her feet stuttering to a stop. She looks at Bobby, then Cas, before rushing to the front door, yanking it open with her heart caught in her throat, to see—

“Hi, Dee.”

Sam is standing on the front porch, sheepishly running a hand through his hair.

Deanna looks at him, and looks at him. She hears Bobby and Cas come up behind her, Bobby’s astonished exclamation and Cas’ warm greeting, but it all becomes white noise as she takes in the sight of her little brother, whole and healthy and _alive_ and she flings her arms around him as tightly as she can.

She cries a little, she’ll be the first to admit it; she thinks she’s entitled, given the circumstances and the day she’s had. Besides, she’s ninety percent sure he’s crying, too. Deanna and Sam stand there for the longest time, arms wrapped around each other, before he eventually gasps out, “Dee. Can’t—breathe.” She releases him immediately, and swipes a hand over her eyes, and they grin at each other.

“You gonna let me at him, or are we just gonna have to stand here all night, girl?” Bobby asks from behind her. Deanna steps aside, letting Bobby give Sam a quick squeeze, and lead him inside. She stands on the porch, listening to Cas sincerely welcome her brother back, and what is probably the sound of Sam pulling the angel into a hug, given the quiet noise of surprise, and thinks _thank you, Gabriel. Thank you so much,_ before following her family into the sitting room.

They all settle down, Bobby behind his desk and Sam, Deanna, and Cas squeezed onto the sofa. 

“So, what’d I miss?” Sam asks, raising an eyebrow when he sees their faces blanch. “What, that bad?”

***

After catching Sam up on everything, first Cas then Bobby disappear from the room, the latter giving her brother’s shoulder a squeeze and a muttered, _glad to have you back, boy,_ before heading up to bed.

Sam turns to her, eyes still wide from their tale. “Wow,” is all he says.

Deanna snorts. “I know, right? It’s been a long few months.” Her throat tightens, and she chokes out, “I really missed you, Sammy.”

He hugs her again, until she shoves him off of her, saying, “Okay, that’s enough chick flick moments for one night,” as Sam laughs.

“You, uh. Remember anything?” Deanna tentatively asks. To her relief, Sam just shakes his head.

“No, nothing. Guess Gabriel took care of that when he raised me,” he shrugs.

“Yeah, guess so.” A thought occurs to her. “Hey, Sam?”

“Yeah, Dee?”

“Remember what you asked me to do, before you said yes to Lucifer?”

Her brother narrows his eyes, visibly wracking his brain. “Oh!” Sam says. “Yeah: don’t try to break me out and tell Cas how you feel. Looks like you’re oh for two, Dee,” her brother jokes, smiling.

Deanna clears her throat. “I mean, I’d argue with the first one; I didn’t try to break you out, Gabriel just did it for me. I didn’t even ask or anything.” Sam tips his head in acknowledgement.

“Fair,” he agrees. “Fulfilling one of two dying wishes isn’t bad. Good effort, Dee.”

Deanna clears her throat again, and opens her mouth. Then closes it, when she realizes she doesn’t know how to articulate what she wants to say. Thankfully, her brother knows her well enough to hear what she isn’t saying, and his eyes widen. 

“Wait. You—?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did,” Deanna replies.

“And?” Sam asks, eyes still wide. “What did he say?”

“Well, mostly he just shoved his tongue down my throat and his hand down—”

“Okay! That’s enough, I don’t wanna hear anymore!” He pauses. “But. Did you guys just, uh—”

“Fuck?” Deanna helpfully supplies. Sam makes one of his bitch faces, but nods.

“Yeah. That.”

“No. I told him exactly how I felt.”

“And?”

“And he feels the same.” Deanna can’t bring herself to say the L word, not even in the quiet of the night. _No,_ she thinks. _That’s just for me and Cas._

“Ew,” Sam says. Deanna scowls.

“You’re the one who told me to go for it, you don’t get to make fun of me!”

“I’ll always make fun of you, Dee.”

Deanna feels her face soften, until she’s smiling again. “Yeah. I’m counting on it.”

***

Deanna isn’t sure what she expects when she enters the guest room—Sam had insisted on staying on the couch, citing the fact that Deanna had killed an archangel earlier that day as the reason, but she knows her brother just wants her to get a full night of sleep since she’d been swaying with exhaustion when they’d said good night—but it isn’t Cas on the bed, in just his dress shirt and slacks, reading her beaten up copy of Slaughterhouse-Five.

“Hey,” she says, and shuts the door behind her, leaning back against it. She drinks in the sight of Cas, as close to relaxed as she’s ever seen him, in her bed, alive and staying that way for the foreseeable future.

“Hello, Deanna,” the angel responds, making note of his page in the book before setting it down on the bedside table. 

Heart drumming against her ribcage, Deanna slowly walks over to Cas. She drapes her jacket over the chair, kicks off her boots and jeans, and shrugs off her flannel before crawling into bed atop the angel, legs on either side of his hips. They stare at each other for a few moments, and Deanna can see the awe she’s feeling over the fact they’re _alive_ and _together_ reflected in Cas’ eyes. She dips down to kiss him, trying to tell him everything she’s feeling in the slick slide of their lips: the terror and desperation from earlier melting away into the relief and joy she’s experiencing right now; the depths of her—Deanna lets herself think it, with just the two of them in the room—love and affection for him. She pulls back, still straddling him. 

A wave of exhaustion hits her, so she flops down to one side and looks at Cas. “I have to sleep,” she murmurs regretfully. “Sorry.” The angel shakes his head.

“Don’t be sorry,” he tells her, and runs his fingers through her hair. She would never admit to it in the cold light of day, but in the coziness of the room with just the two of them, she nuzzles into the touch and sighs, content.

“Will you stay? Watch over me?” Deanna asks lightly, only her racing heart betraying how nervous she is to hear the answer.

Cas just smiles at her, a slight thing that nonetheless shines with affection and warmth and _love_, and simply says, “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recognisable dialogue comes from the episodes 5.22 Swan Song and 5.03 Free to Be You and Me; the song on the radio and the chapter title both come from The Battle of Evermore by Led Zeppelin.


	6. when mountains crumble to the sea, there will still be you and me (epilogue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are different, obviously, but _better._

Deanna and Sam go back to hunting, becoming Deanna-and-Sam again, with Cas occasionally joining them. Heaven stabilizes under Gabriel’s (reluctant) rule; the archangel asks Balthazar to be his second-in-command, a position also reluctantly accepted, but the two seem to get along well enough to keep the angels under control. After Cas realizes this, he spends more and more time with the Winchesters, to both the siblings’ delight. Deanna settles into the hunting life again, slipping right back into the family business without missing a beat. Things are different, obviously, but _better._ Without any kind of impending Armageddon hanging over them, Deanna and Cas get to know each other, in the we’re-in-a-monogamous-relationship-and-seriously-in-love sense, not just as two soldiers fighting the same war, or friends who have each other’s backs, and it’s good. 

It’s _really_ good, being with Cas in both the literal space-sharing way and the figurative romantic way. Both Deanna and Sam revel in teaching Cas the little things about humanity, and relish his reactions to things like reality TV (“I don’t understand. How is this anyone’s ‘reality’?” he asks, when Sam shows him Keeping Up With The Kardashians on a day when they get snowed in at their motel. “There are cameras recording this, what makes it real?” “Exactly,” Deanna mutters.), Dr. Sexy MD (Deanna shows it to Cas on the same snow day, and the angel watches it with rapt attention and doesn’t say a word until the episode ends. “Should I get boots like Dr. Sexy’s?” Cas asks Deanna innocently, and Sam chokes on the beer he was drinking.) and diner food (“I’ll have the cobb salad, thanks,” Sam tells the waitress, handing his menu over, and she smiles at him. “Bacon cheeseburger for me, thanks, sweetheart,” Deanna says, then turns to the booth’s other occupant. “Cas, you know what you want?” she asks the angel. “I’ll have one of both of what they’re getting,” Cas solemnly informs the waitress, who nods agreeably. “Oh. And what kind of pie do you have?” Deanna grins. _Best date ever,_ she thinks.”) (They ended up with a slice of apple, pecan, and lemon meringue. “I like the apple the best,” Cas says, whipped cream on his nose.)__

_ _The lance is gone; she can feel that much, but the tattoo remains. Sometimes, when she and Cas are in bed together, whether they’re in a motel room, at Bobby’s, or the hood of the Impala just like that very first night; whether they’re post-coitally flushed and panting or crashing after a lengthy and exhausting hunt or Deanna is just on the verge of sleep, her head on Cas' shoulder with one of his hands toying with a strand of her hair and the other flipping through a book, Cas will run his fingers over where she knows her wings are. No matter what they’re doing, Deanna will always sigh and press a bit closer to Cas, since it's a reminder of all they’ve gone through to get where they are: together, sometimes peaceful, but always free._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s all, folks! Might come back to this ‘verse sometime in the future, so if you liked my Deanna, leave a kudos or drop a comment and let me know if you’d want that, and what you’d wanna see, or other general thoughts about always-a-girl!Dean. 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [riiiiight here](https://fitinmypoems.tumblr.com/), where I have occasionally been known to tumbl. Oh, and chapter title comes from Thank You by Led Zeppelin.

**Author's Note:**

> The King James mentioned here is referring to that version of the Bible. 
> 
> Sefer Raziel HaMalakh is a real book, a grimoire from the Middle Ages that doesn’t, in fact, make any mention on how to kill an archangel (in my head Cas is reading it in its original Hebrew and Aramaic).
> 
> I made up Arma Antiqua for this story, but it means ‘ancient weapons’ in Latin and sounded reasonably cool. 
> 
> The story Cas tells Deanna at Bobby’s is the story of the very real Tungaska Event; I am unable to confirm or deny the presence of angels at the actual event, but until there’s definitive proof as to what did cause it, I’m gonna assume it was Gabriel fucking around. 
> 
> Recognizable dialogue comes from the episodes 5.22 Swan Song and 4.07 It’s The Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester; chapter title comes from Going to California by Led Zeppelin.


End file.
